


Nothing Is Priceless

by 123scout123



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Lima Syndrome, Slow Burn, idk - Freeform, lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/123scout123/pseuds/123scout123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joff wants his lady love to be able to pleasure a man, if she cannot learn she will be given away. Can Sansa get allies and escape by the deadline? What will she do for freedom (read who will she do ;) )<br/>The Wolf Queen needs a pack bc winter is coming and the lone wolf dies. But the pack survives.<br/>mostly fluff but hopefully (fingers crossed) some real smut later<br/>i'm toying with the ships cause i love SanSan but also Sansa x Petyr is so good <br/>summary is still a work in progress lol sorry</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (please comment! i have a thirst for ur comments)

He had summoned her, to the first of many so called meetings between the betrothed.

Joffery Baratheon sat on an immense, carved mahogany chair, his young body propped up with a dozen or so brightly colored embroidered pillows and blankets. The young king had an air of arrogance to him, and always seemed to have a devious sneer plastered permanently to his exaggerated features. It was as if he knew the secrets of the galaxy and was content to watch people struggle through their lives. He was malice personified, a malevolent God happy to watch his followers eat at each others throats in his name.

He was both devilishly handsome and completely and utterly repulsive. The sickly sweet smell of decay clung to him like a cologne, and as he smiled, his feminine lips pulled back to expose elongated canines, and the onlooker would fall victim to his spell. People have died for him, people have loved him. She loved him; and was taught the hard way, that falling in love with Satan's spawn had horrible repercussions.

Sansa Stark kneeled before her king and fiancé, shivering despite the warmth of his stare and the summer breezes. She, the beautiful porcelain doll from the North, was left alone in the presence of this arrogant young king, a boy parading in a man's body, his head filled with delusions of his own power and self-worth. She was prey to his might, and no sweet song could help her. Not this time.

Joffery stirred from his plush throne, and leaned forward to cast his gaze on her exposed neck and shoulders, eyeing her as a starved dog might eye a caged and weak animal. He cleared his throat, with a huff of air that managed to sound aggressive and hungry. Sansa knew how to appease his, quell his hunger, but it felt different this time. She had seen him lick his plump lips as she had entered, and she had glimpsed the satisfaction in his eyes as she followed his order to sit in front of his stretched legs. She knew that he had realized that she would follow any order given to her. Sansa wrung her hands in a desperate attempt to calm her nerves, and thought, hoping it were true, He is a king, he would not do anything to disrespect my honor, I am his bride to be, his Queen, he dare not touch me. She wanted to believe it, she wanted to believe that she was safe, that despite everything that had occurred, that her dear sweet Joffery loved and cherished her.

So Sansa inched her head up slowly, afraid to meet his eyes, afraid of what darkness might lurk in them.

But what she did see frightened her more than anything she could have imagined; deep within those icy eyes she saw an emptiness, and a dark, lewd longing. She saw her own demise, the ravishing of her body as he imagined, she could hear the screams that Joffery lived for. She could see the darkness spreading and could feel his greed crawling under her skin as his eyes roamed over her body. Her face must have betrayed her fear for Joffery's eyes became darker still, and he licked his lips.

Joffery leaned towards her again and Sansa could feel the blood draining from her face. He reached out his hand and cupped her chin in his hands, squeezing her tender flesh, and digging his nails into the curve of her jaw. Her breath hitched and caught in her throat, and she shut her eyes to the world, and her own misery. Even with her eyes closed, Sansa could sense that Joffery had gotten closer. His face crossed the remaining inches between them in seconds until she could feel his breath being exhaled heavily on her ear. Her blood seemed to be boiling at his closeness, and yet he seemed to some closer. He opened his mouth to whisper to her.

"You're mine Sansa."  

And with those three words her world was drained of life and color. She could imagine his sneer as he said those three words again.  

"You're mine Sansa."

He tightened his grip on her chin and she knew then with a heavy heart that if she did not comply with his wishes, he would have her killed. And so she replied, and condemned herself to living at his feet, always at his beck and call.

"I am yours."

* * *

 

As soon as those words were said, Sansa could feel the bruises forming.

Licking her lips, to get the taste of submission out of her mouth, she stammered, "My King, my sweet and handsome Lord, I am yours, now and forever,". Joffery, mistaking her confession of status as an admission that he owned her, got the idea in his head to see how far he could push his new toy before it broke.

"Oh Sansa, that's such a pretty little song you sing. Mother was so vexed that I choose you over that Tyrell girl, but fuck her," He told her as he caressed her cheek with a calloused thumb, relishing how his touch made her cringe. "I am the king, and the king can choose which whore he wants to bed. So I just choose the best looking one," He smirked, knowing that that language would psychically hurt Sansa.

"Really Sansa, you should be pleased," He began again, "You will have the honor of whelping my children." Sansa could feel the tears forming but forbade herself from showing any more weakness in front of him, it would do no good to her now. But she could feel him sliding his other hand down her neck, combing his disgusting fingers through her auburn locks, and the fear started building higher. Until finally he found the clasp at the base of her neck that kept the dress together, she could keep silent no longer.

Startled she opened her eyes and snaked her hands onto his arm, "Please my lord, wait," She pleaded with him.

Joffery was not happy at this intrusion, he liked it when she was quiet and complacent, but something compelled him.

"How dare you tell me what to do, I am your King," He was intrigued but did not want her to think he was interested in what she had to say, so he slapped her face lightly twice, if only to remind her that he held the power. He couldn't help the guttural groan that escaped him as the red hand print started to form on her pale skin, he loved seeing her marked as his. And he devoured the sight of her with teary eyes and her perfect sculpted lips in a perfect 'O'. It created an animalistic rage in him to make her scream his name, or just scream in general. He wanted her, but was afraid of not being able to satisfy her, even though a voice in his head told him that it only mattered if he was satisfied. He decided not to entertain these thoughts, rather he focused on the girl kneeling at his feet, and how if she said the wrong thing he was able to punish her. And that gave him more joy than he thought was possible. He was only creative when it came to punishments and torture.

As Sansa composed herself, she fought to find the exact words that would both flatter him into letting her keep her maidenhood and keep his straying fists away from her face.

"M-my king, I am yet a virgin, and however hard I want to please you...in that way, I am afraid that I would not be good enough for you." She could see his eyes darken still, and his eyebrows furrowed ; altogether not a good sign. "Let me explain sire, if I were to be a good wife, I need to know how to, ahem, please you. Please, Joffery, allow me some time to learn...the ways of a good wife," It was the first time in months that she had addressed him by his name not his title, and just for extra measures she rubbed his hand in hers, and looked up at him through her eyelashes. The way she knew he liked.

Clearing his throat and shifting his legs to block her from seeing how his breeches were bulging, Joffery sighed, "Your request shall be granted, but be warned, my dear, if I am not pleased with your performance, I will..." And Joffery's mind raced for some punishment that would haunt her dreams, and a vile thought entered his head. With a wicked grin he told her the punishment, leaning closer for effect, "If I am not pleased with your performance, I will give you to my Hound for a fortnight,". If Joffery was anything, he was adept at being cruel, as shown by how aghast Sansa was. Her eyes widened and the tears she had been trying so hard to hold in came surging forward with an unwanted magnitude. Joffery thought that this day couldn't get any better.

Releasing his hand from her now clammy grip, Joffery leaned back on his pillows and propped his elbow on the arm of the chair, and with a relaxed sign let his chin fall into his palm, turning his head to give Sansa a good view of his profile. Sansa was frozen, eyes wide and staring, pleading with him to reconsider, and tears falling down over her smooth ivory skin. Her mouth was making a perfect O again. With a childish giggle Joffery thought of something worse he could do to her that would have faster results.

"Oh Sansa?" He called, in a sing song voice, down to her. She raised her head mechanically and shut her mouth but the tears kept coming, no matter how fast and angrily she wiped them away. "I think I have an idea about how you could learn the ways of a woman quicker," He said, a sneer once again playing at his lips. "You are well aware of Littlefinger's brothels, yes? You will apprentice there for the time being, until Littlefinger, himself, deems you worthy enough for the king!" Shocked at how marvelously cruel he could be, Joffery laughed, completely taken over by his mirth. He didn't even notice that Sansa was sobbing now, her head down shrouded by her hair.

After a long and hefty guffaw Joffery had to wipe away tears of his own, and in his euphoria prodded Sansa with the tip of his boot. "Now, I've had enough of you for today Sansa, dearest. Leave. Go now and leave your king." He managed to blurt out between cackles.

Sansa, ever obedient stopped her sobbing and picked herself up, murmuring her thanks to her king, before she shuffled out of his room, and was escorted back to her chambers.

Quiet as a corpse, Sansa was walked back to her room trailing behind the immense shape of the Hound, with two of Joffery's men a few feet behind her. The Kettlebacks? Sansa could not be sure, but that was not as important to her as the new assignment Joffery had given her. And as the gloomy parade marched further on, Sansa felt the need to rest.

She had come to this castle with porcelain skin, she was made of ivory now, but to survive she would need steel.


	2. Chapter 2

As she walked behind the Hound, Sansa allowed herself some creative freedom.  She felt the blood rushing up her neck to her ears as she pondered how gentle this man truly would be if she failed to meet Joffery's expectations of her. His reputation preceded him, he was called a beast, a Hound; coarse of tongue, and with a wit as sharp as his sword, but he had always treated Sansa with a grudging kindness.  When Joffery demanded that his men harm her with their mailed fists, Sandor Clegane had never hit her harder than Arya would have, and with more show than force behind his fists.

 

The Hound had even gone as far as whisper to her one day, "Cry you twit, you king demands it of you, if not I he will send others, and I promise you, little bird, they will not think twice about bloodying that pretty face,", when Sansa could not muster the show of emotion that her King so demanded from her.  If Sansa had been less naive she would have realized what a great asset he could be. But Sandor did not fit her image of a knight in shining armor: where Sansa's dream prince was tall and fair, Sandor was bulky and dark, and where her knight was gallant, Sandor was a drunken tool of the royal family. 

 

But putting everything superficial aside, Sandor was a valiant knight, however grotesque it was to watch, he never lost a joist or duel. 

 

Sandor must have sensed her wandering eyes for he cocked his head, favoring the unburned side to look at her.  "What is it little bird? You like what you see? I promise what's underneath is more easy on the eyes,".  Which he followed with a loud, echoing laugh, he was yet another man in Sansa's life that took pleasure from making her blush.  But his laughter was not as cruel as Joffery's, it was more raspy and harsh on the ears, but she felt more embarrassed at being caught staring than afraid.  

 

"You're looking well today, sir," Sansa managed, if anything she could be relied on for being polite.  Though her manners had gotten her more punishment than praise in this pit of vipers.

 

The laughter that had been friendly a moment ago halted sharply and his silver eyes squinted at her.  Sandor whipped his head around again, his raven colored locks twisting hostilely in the air, and growled, "How many times must I tell you, girl, that I am no 'sir'," He spat the word 'sir', his own personal grievance with the world, that he thought himself no 'true knight', but was burdened with the white cloak of the King's guard.  It might have been his own past transgressions with knights, that soured the sound of 'sir', or it might have been his own anger at being a dog of the King, but Sandor Clegane would not allow anyone to call him 'sir'.  Not even the doe eyed Sansa.  Even when she whispered her apologies, Sandor's anger could not be quelled, if anything the tiny voice from behind him only made Sandor angrier.

 

After that Sansa was denied the privilege of looking upon his face, instead he hunched his shoulders and she would occasionally hear dark murmuring.  She could only imagine how his features would be twisted into a scowl.   ** _So typical of him to become so hostile, such a fool_** , she thought with a scowl of her own.

 

As they silently neared further to her chambers, Sansa could feel the coldness that had been inside her since her talk with Joffery, intensifying.  Her stomach was turning, and everything seemed cramped and dingy; she had to steady herself against the wall, halting the procession as she tried and failed to get over how faint she felt.  But she could not shake the dread that threatened to immobilize her. Even when prodded by the butt of one of the mens spears, Sansa could not find her feet, or her voice.  She was frozen, petrified, caught.  When Sandor came over to her, his hulking form anything but friendly, Sansa felt her legs fail her, and she met the cold castle ground with a thump.  Her hand still on the wall as she hid her face behind her hair.

 

"Do I scare you so badly, girl?," Sandor scoffed at her, but not unkindly.  She could hear him bending towards her, and when she looked it was he who was kneeling before her.  Only to make them eye to eye, but the sentiment did not go unnoticed.

 

"Come now, what could the little prick have said that would have scared you so badly, little bird?"  Sandor asked her, quietly enough that the other two men could not overhear, gripping her shoulder firmly but with a gentle touch that Sansa had forgotten possible.

 

"It is too dangerous to talk of it, my lord, but thank you for your concern nonetheless," Sansa breathed, not daring to speak louder for fear her voice might falter. She did look into his eyes as she spoke, to drive home the words, hoping that her need for his help was tangible.  Sandor was shrewd to her words, and narrowed his eyes at Osney and Oswald, the two Kettleblack brothers that were escorting her back as well.

 

And without warning Sansa could feel Sandor’s muscular arms snake around her waist and legs, effortlessly snatching her up from the ground and positioning her against his chest.  She knew it pointless to struggle, but made of show of squirming while the two other men were watching.

 

“It seems as if the wolf pup has lost her legs. Osney, you and your brother go fetch Master Pycelle, Joffery will be vexed if we neglect his bride to be,” Sandor commanded, his back straight, and in his arms a stunned and feebly struggling Sansa Stark.  When the two brothers did not comply with his order right away, Sandor stomped his foot, and authoritatively barked at them, “Go! Before I tell his royal prick of your insolence!”. Which sent the armored knights scurrying.

 

Sandor watched them go, holding Sansa tighter to his broad chest.  She had been weakly trying to push herself out of his arms, knowing full well that it would do no good, but felt that she at least had to try.  When the brothers were out of sight Sandor looked down at her, something like tenderness and concern alight in his grey eyes.  “Want to be rid of me that much then little bird?” He asked when she placed her hands on his chest and pushed feebly.  And without waiting for so much as a nod, he dropped her.  Opening his arms wide and releasing his grip on her, letting her fall unceremoniously to the floor, where she sat rubbing her jarred spine and grimacing.

 

“That hurt!” She complained up at the massive beast of a man standing over her.  Sandor laughed at that, like it was some humorous jape, and he did laugh, long and hard.  As he exhaled his last laugh, Sansa straightened up and asked indignantly, “Quite finished, good sir Hound,”. Sansa asked, trying to stifle her own giggles and put on a serious, dignified face; a queen’s face.  And with a mock bow The Hound reached out his hand, to help her to her feet and replied, oozing sarcasm.

 

“Oh yes, little Wolf Queen. I would not dare to anger you further, it is best I get you to your rooms your Highness,” 

 

* * *

 

 

Her room was near the Tower of the Hand, a cruel trick played by Joffery to remind her of the role she played in her father’s death.  

 

In the beginning, every time she would enter the chambers Sansa would be pummeled by a onset of guilt about how her father’s death was her fault; and her guilt would sometimes, literally asphyxiate her.  Her dreams were tormented by her father’s soulless eyes, and Ilyn Payne’s fatal swing, but up until recently they had been mild nightmares.  

 

For the past few weeks Sansa's dreams had shifted.  Before she had dreamed of Purgatory, now Sansa dreamt of Hell; in her dreams Sansa was walking through a godswood with Lady when all of the weirwood trees would turn towards her, cry rivers of blood red sap, and whisper to her that she had killed her father.  She would try to hug Lady, but Lady would bare her teeth at her, and Lady’s eyes would go as red as the trees’ blood.  Then Sansa would look down at her hands and see them covered in blood; her father’s blood.  And the weirwoods would scream inaudible, demonic things, and the ground beneath Sansa would disappear, leaving her flying throughout an empty, new universe, void of emotion and light.

 

Needless to say Sansa was terrified of sleeping after that, and when she did she would have that dream over and over again, several times a night.  Every morning she would wake up in a cold sweat, her pillows soaked with sobs that had been silent, and on a few occasions she had wet the bed out of terror.  It had been humiliating for Sansa when Shea had to clean up the mess she made.  Almost unbearable.  A true lady would not have such embarrassing, childish moments.

 

But somehow having Sandor standing behind her made her feel stronger, it might have been foolish of her, but she felt actually safe and protected in his presence.  Such a brute could surely destroy all of the things that haunted her.  But she hesitated in the doorway either way, with or without Sandor, she was reluctant to enter this cold, pale room.  Yet with a light shove she was sent through the threshold.

 

Unlike the other times, when Sandor would leave her standing there in the middle of the room, Sandor followed her inside. And closed the door behind him, causing Sansa to jump at the sound of the shutting door, and started to sweat as the bolt was latched.  She had no idea what was going to happen, but her mind immediately went to the worst possible places; that The Hound was sent by Joffery to rape her, some other form of punishment.  And as Sandor’s footsteps sounded his departure from the door, Sansa began shaking, her marrow started to chill again, and she felt herself becoming faint.  She must have been swaying, for Sandor rushed towards her and put his large hands on her petite shoulders to steady her.

 

“Come little bird, are you this afraid just to be in a room with me?” The Hound rasped in her ear, and if she was not mistaken there was a note of hurt in his voice, as if he was saddened by her fear.  But he laughed a quick and strained chuckle and steered her towards the chair that sat in front of her dresser. “Lets have you sit down before you break yourself, girl,”.  And he sat her down with Sansa facing the mirror made into her dresser, the image it reflected horribly hilarious.

 

A huge man in shining armor holding a small petite girl by the shoulders, his face covered with concern and tender kindness, her's a mask of emptiness, her eyes dead and cold, her mouth a rigid line cut into translucent skin.  She would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, but Sansa lacked the energy.

 

**_He could do what he wanted to me, and I would not be able to fight him_** , She thought darkly.  But it was true, she was in no state to put up a fight against such a large and imposing man such as Sandor.  Though a small voice, as small as she felt, kept nagging at her to think rationally. That if Sandor wanted her, that way, then he could have had her numerous times already.  The two of them were alone enough that no one would have known if he had had his way with her.  And she was easily frightened, she would never have told anyone for fear of consequences.

 

But her subconscious took it further.  Although she was not exactly infatuated with the large man, she felt a kinship, a bond per se, with him that she lacked with anyone else.  He was not like a hero from song, that much was true, but he had saved her on more than one occasion.

 

She thought that she would rather like having a closer bond with him, though she was naive to the ways of women. She had not lied to Joffery; she knew nothing about sex.  And even the mention of sex made her ears burn.

 

Sandor must have seen her blushing because he lewdly teased her by huskily whispering in her ear, “And what do we have here? A wolf pup thinking about rutting with a Hound? And in her own chambers! What would your fiancé say!”.  Sansa felt feverish her blush was so hot and strong, but she did not deny that she had been thinking of it, but in much less vulgar terms.

 

With a hearty guffaw, Sandor walked backwards to the edge of her bed and sat himself down.  He leaned forward, with his elbows resting on his knees, he seemed perfectly at ease to perch on her bed and laugh at her. When he was throughly finished, Sansa pivoted in her chair to face him, her face undoubtedly still a strong shade of red.

 

“Ah, it’s nice to laugh, isn’t little bird?” He asked her with a smirk, only to be answered with a scowl from the girl. Which made his smile widen.  “Oh, lighten up, girl! Besides we have to discuss what that little prick said to make you so ill,” And with that The Hound’s mood shifted from mischievous to politic, he meant business, and would only accept the truth.  Sansa had no choice to tell him, Joffery’s own man, what the young king had in store for her, and more importantly what her punishment would be if she could not comply with his wishes.  She was terrified of admitting how dreadful her circumstances were and how she desperately wanted nothing more than to not meet Joffery's expectations.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again please don't forget to comment!! It's really helpful to know what you guys liked/disliked, and I'm kind of iffy about this chapter so I might re-do it later on...but anyways!! tell me what you'd like to see!!


	3. Chapter 3

As Sansa was explaining her situation, Sandor just sat there.  Head in his hands, occasionally shaking his shoulders with what Sansa thought was grief but in reality he was laughing; at her, at Joffery, and at himself.  It was a sad sounding laugh, hollow, and desperate, mirroring how awful their situation was.  But as Sansa mentioned, quite awkwardly I might add, what the punishment for not being satisfactory was, the part with Sandor directly involved, Sandor peeked through his fingers, silver eyes glinting, on fire.  Then he threw back his head and chuckled, only once or twice, but it was the laughter of a cornered man, one who knew that his only existence in life was to act as a punishment to beautiful maidens.

 

How hilarious it was; the only woman to ever grace his presence with hers would be shipped off to a whore house to be put out for other men, and the best part! She would be given to him if deemed not good enough in bed, how uncannily horrid this whole endeavor was! Not that he didn't want her.

 

"Well, this is the best I have ever seen Joff at, dontcha think, little bird? He does have a knack for being a prick, now what do we do," Sandor said all in one exhale, he was feeling rushed, and claustrophobic. There was a dark voice in his mind that wanted, oh so desperately, for Sansa to be his.  Ever since he had seen the girl he had been wanting her, but had never given it any deeper thought, thinking his was a face too hideous for such an innocent, pure creature to look upon with love.  Forget lust, he did not think Sansa capable of the thing, but not as if he blamed her; after all the men in her life had either been killed or the killers.

 

Besides! She was to be a queen, and he was just the lackey bodyguard of the spoiled, young sociopath that sat on the throne next to her. Sandor had always reasoned that Sansa thought him vile and despicable, and no matter how hard he went into his drinks or women, the thought still hurt him.

 

Sighing inwardly and growling outwardly, Sandor heaved himself up off the bed.  He suddenly could not be this near to her, the possibility that she could be his was too tempting, too maddening. He should not be happy, but his one lonesome dream might come true.  Now he only had to make sure that the little bird was kept locked up in Petyr's establishment instead of being sold.

 

And Baelish.  Sandor had never trusted that man; Lord Littlefinger was too cunning by a half, he always knew what the next move was in this game of thrones, and he always came out on top.  And that was what Sandor feared the most, that Petyr would be the one in charge of Sansa, that he would be the one to bed her, first.  A ridiculous jealousy surged through Sandor's enormous body and he snarled deep and menacing, not caring what Sansa would think, he threw a fist out hitting her bedpost and splintering the wood, collecting various minor injuries that would remind him later of his useless envy.

 

He looked towards her not giving a rat's ass if she saw the burned and twisted flesh of that side of his face, and glancing down he saw her true self, a pale and tiny woman aged and wise beyond her years.  Sandor felt guilty, an emotion he was not used to feeling, it was unwelcome. 

 

"Sorry about that little bird. You should sleep now, girl, they will be coming for you at first light," He managed to avoid her pleading eyes as he said it, instead focusing on the hollow spot below her next, above her full bust, and pondering inwardly about how it would taste.  Coughing he excused himself by merely walking to the door, unlatching it, looking over his shoulder and giving her a fleeting pitiful look.  Sandor was sure she saw it, her eyes widened and she looked like she was about to call him back.  Expectantly Sandor hovered by the door, oddly touched that she would call him back, yet nothing was said and the silence hung down, heavy and unbearable. Standing up Sansa slowly walked over to him, silent on her feet and graceful beyond her age.

 

Without looking at him, instead focusing on his wrinkled shirt front, she implored, "You will help me won't you? I know that Joffery will be wroth if he knew, but please, I do not think I can do this on my own.  You are my only friend here," Stunned into speechlessness Sandor could only dumbly nod his head, his mouth slightly ajar and twitching.  When he didn’t make a move towards the door, Sansa rambled on, absentmindedly twisting his shirt fabric between her fingers, “I am afraid, Joffery is trying his best to hurt me, I have no dignity left for him to take, but he could..always think of other things to do to me,” Her eyes brimmed, yet again on the verge of sobbing, this was too much for her; her ultimatum with Joffery, the threat of being given to the giant next to her, and her unwanted feelings for him, all looming over her, squeezing the air out of her throat.  Sansa was drowning again, this endless torture was taking its toll on her mind, she couldn’t think clearly, everything was foggy and the whole world seemed darker, a pale grey mist covered everything.

 

Sandor felt compelled to wrap his arms around her small frame, bring her close to him and comfort her, promise her that nothing would ever hurt her again.  But he couldn’t, he could not bring himself to give her such empty promises to depend on. She deserved better, she deserved longevity, and warmth, and a household of servants to wait on her, she deserved her freedom.  And he could not give her such things, so why let her create such delusions of grandeur of him?

 

Sandor gently detached himself from her long, pale fingers, smoothed down his shirt, and without looking back he walked out of her chamber, shutting the door on her, out of sight out of mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa stared at the trailing carvings on the wood door, the mahogany was mocking her, its simplicity reflected everything she wanted in life. 

 

Ever since she was young Sansa had only wanted one thing; a hero from song and a life of peaceful prosperity. Sansa had always been the good child, following orders and obedient, she had never played outside, preferring to stay by her mother’s side to learn how to sew, and speak properly, how to sing, and take care of a house; how to be a true lady.  She was blessed with the Tully hair and eyes, but she forever lacked the backbone of a northerner. She could never harm anyone or anything intentionally, and yet she knew all too well how to play the game of thrones regardless of her purity.  She knew what to say and how to get ahead, and no one paid attention to the sullen beautiful maiden, so Sansa often over heard things not meant for her ears.  She had even gained the respect of Tyrion Lannister, and had refused his help to escape the marriage between the two houses.  Though she regretted turning down the Imp’s help every waking hour of her existence.

 

She seemed to float back to her bed, and she striped of her clothes, looking at the clasp at the back of her dress where Joffery’s greasy fingers had left smudges on her gown.  Her frozen heart thawed at the sight of those reminders that he had dared touch her, she was infuriated at her own incompetence, how she was unable to fight her fate.

 

She dug her nails into the cloth, and tore at it with all her might, venting her frustrations at the world, she knew Joffrey would be wroth with her, he loved that color on her, he had said “It made her more easy on the eyes, as long as she did not speak she would be beautiful”.

 

But she did not care, she could still feel the tender yellow and purple bruises over her body, and her lip was still healing from when one of the White Cloaks had hit her with a mailed fist.  She remembered how giddy Joffery had been as she had bled in front of him. She didn’t realize how strong she was, or how flimsy her dress had been for it lay on her bed with tears running down it.  

 

She stripped down further, taking off every article of clothing, as an direct order from Joffrey, Sansa was to sleep in the nude. It was dehumanizing to be told how to do every aspect of living, from what to eat, to what to wear, to how to sleep.  She felt like one of those exotic animals trapped in a gilded cage, prodded and laughed at by everyone, her life on display for the sickened masses. 

 

But she was too exhausted to entertain these saddening thoughts, she needed her rest if she was going to survive. Petyr Baelish was a family friend, he had loved her mother when they were kids, so she was content to believe that he would help her escape, if not help her survive.

 

Falling on the bed, Sansa crept underneath her sheets, and curled up, clutching a pillow to her chest, playing pretend that it was Lady.  She felt like weeping, but she was too emotionally drained to exert that much energy.  Resigned to face her fate on the morrow, Sansa closed her eyes and drifted off, the last thing she wanted was to have that nightmare again, but the warm spot on her bed where Sandor had sat, comforted her.  It reminded her that he would protect her, and she knew that she wasn’t going to dream so long as she remembered the concern alight in his eyes.  And so she fell into a deep slumber, The Hound’s face being the last thing she saw.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa awoke with a start, the sunlight streaming through her window was too hot for her to sleep comfortably so she sat up clutched the blankets to her chest, and stared fearfully at her closed door.  It was first light, judging by the sunrise outside, and yet no one had come to fetch her.  She had expected a rude awakening, but she would not put it past Joffery to come later than expected, just to leave her anxious and paranoid.  And even if he did not send anyone to get her, he would expect her to go to him. His soul was dark like that.

 

She counted the seconds, minutes ticked by in fearful agony but there were still no footsteps in the corridor or knocks at her door.  Reading the situation as safe, for now, Sansa climbed out of her featherbed, and padded quickly to her dresser where she yanked a gown from its hanger and threw it on.  All while keeping one eye open and one ear cocked; she was loathe to be caught off guard around these people.

 

The entire Red Keep was overrun with rats; people paraded as ladies and gentlemen but were wicked schemers. Flatterers and fools took up residence in this castle, weaving their webs of lies incessantly.  In all the seven hells there was not a place as full of deceit and corruption as the capitol in the south. 

 

Sansa had tried her best to keep out of all political affairs but had failed miserably, finding herself adept at playing their game.  Besides, if all they did was paint smiles on their faces then she too could make a mask and wear it, and she did, she was the best at it.  But she was still a child, and wanted fiercely to believe that there were heroes and honest people in the world. Joffery and his company of depraved individuals had made her lose all faith in humanity, he was only a boy, her own age, and yet he had sparked wars with his cruelty and sadistic nature.  He had certainly hurt her and her family beyond repair; he had personally called for her father’s head, ignoring her pleas and bargaining, even the council of his mother, something Sansa would never forget or forgive.

 

But now she all but belonged to Joffery, another one of his possessions, only able to ever bend to his will.  It was disgusting.  Sansa had tried so hard to become a lady in her mother’s image. Looking into her mirror she could see a familiar coldness in her eyes, the same frozen glare that her father, Ned Stark, was known for.  Maybe she had been trying to be the wrong person, when she should have been imitating her father’s backbone she was too busy trying to remember all of the mannerisms that her lady mother had drilled into her head. And so, with a renewed resolve she settled on the chair facing the mirror and decided to sit there and wait for Joffery to come to her, she refused to go to him like another one of his obedient dogs.  She was excited with her new found backbone, but was terribly afraid of how his highness would react to her latest insolence. 

 

It did not take long for Joffery to notice her absence and seek her out, so Sansa would only have a few fleeting moments of true serenity. 

 

* * *

 

 

Pacing in front of his Iron Throne, Joffery fumed.  He walked up and down the steps leading to his birthright, thinking reasons why Sansa had not yet come to him.

 

“Where is she?!” He bellowed, with as much hostility an impatient teenage boy could muster.  Joffery was not used to waiting, and despised it. He was king for gods' sake! And he was not going to be ignored, unless the person had a death wish.  All of his composure and self pride from the other night had vanished, he wanted, even needed, to see her.  

 

That only made the boy king angrier, he stamped his foot and threw his crown down, sending it flying down the few steps, the clangor it caused only maddening him further. 

 

Joffery held the most power in all of Westeros, and knew full well just how important he was. He lived for it, the boy was the personification of pride. Which might have been due to his lack of a childhood.

 

Joffery had never known love, or nurturing, as a child.  More often than naught, he had been smothered by his mother and abandoned by his absentee father.  Once or twice he had even caught his father in the act, with another woman, sometimes with a servant, or a whore. His uncle Jaime, was the only father figure he knew, but Joffery was put off by the closeness shared between his mother and her brother.  It was alien to him that siblings should love each other, he rarely even saw Myrcella or Tommen.  For all he knew they hated him, but as much as he told himself that it didn’t matter, he was hurt, for he lacked real connections with people, he lacked ‘people skills’.  That was why he was so intent on having Sansa by his side always; not only was she the most beautiful woman he had ever seen to date, but if he could get her to respect, if not love him, then he could get anyone on his side.  And in the game of thrones, you need as many allies as you can get.

 

But as of right now, all Joffery wanted was obedience. He only thought her asleep, that maybe she had forgotten their conversation last night.

 

 ** _Maybe she isn’t afraid of me anymore! Can that happen?_** Joffery pondered, chewing his bottom lip, as was his nervous tic. And he was quite anxious, his nerves becoming more and more frayed with every passing minute. Sansa had been the only person ever truly afraid of him.  And he was loathe to let her become brave, not when he had anything to do with it.

 

“Hound!” Joffery spat, his voice cracking slightly out of adolescence desperation, and he did, in that moment, sound his age. 

 

“Hound, where are you!” Joffery spat again, his temper rising.

 

“I’m here your Majesty, don’t burst a vein sire.” Came a familiar husky voice accompanied by a mirthless laugh. Joffery knew that voice my heart, better than he knew his own Mother’s.  

 

Sandor Clegane was the only man that Joffery permitted to speak to him with such utter disrespect, and although Sandor often forgot himself and treated Joffery like a child, which he was, Joffery kept him nearby, always.

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Joffery strode over to where Sandor was standing below the steps, and stopped a few above The Hound, so that the two of them were at eye level.

 

“Hound, must I tell you to address your king by his title,” Joffery began, the splitting migraine inside his head increasing ten fold. “That’s besides the point, I know full well that no one can beat any sense into that horrendous head of yours. But I have need of your special brand of...intimidation,”

“You want me to show my face to that wolf girl of yours? Do you hope it will drive her into your arms, boy?” Sandor retorted.

 

“Watch yourself, Dog! I am no boy, I am your king! And you will do as I command, and I command you to fetch my bride-to-be, and yes, the more frightened she is, the better job you have done,”

 

Joffery huffed at the hulking form of his bodyguard, his intentions tangible in the stuffy summer air.  He wanted Sansa to be bruised when she came to him.  He wanted her punished for neglecting her duties, but was too cowardly to deliver the blows himself.

 

Sandor understood exactly what the small king wanted; he wanted Sansa to suffer, to cry and whimper.  He wanted her punished for neglecting her duties, for not paying him enough attention.

 

“As you wish Your Grace,” Sandor recited, kneeling before the smug boy as was customary, his scowl deepening behind the curtain of his long black hair.

 

And with that, Sandor stood and left, unhappy to have this job laid on his shoulders, but unwilling to voice his grievances.

 

* * *

 

 

He walked down the corridors, sweating profusely, and swearing under his breath. 

 

Sandor had hoped that someone else would have been in charge of fetching the little bird, but it was for the better.  He knew the other cravens in the Kingsguard would have hurt Sansa more.  He was well aware that a few, Osney and Oswald Kettleblack, for instance, took pleasure in hitting women.  He had heard them brag about how badly they had beaten whores when they were well into their cups.  If he remembered them correctly, they had said that the women were “asking for it”. **_They have a mother, and seven hells maybe even daughters, why would they say such horrible things? Those fools,_** Sandor speculated hotly. 

 

He respected women, even if he was often treated fearfully by the opposite gender.  Sandor’s firm belief, though somewhat unexpected, was that men who hurt women were cowards, and that the other sex was not weaker, no matter how strongly that was felt in this country.  He could not admit this to anyone, he would be deemed craven and insipid, maybe even attacked by radicals, but he always went out of his way to protect the oppressed females he saw.  He helped them secretly, and would be resentful that not more was or could be done.

 

So it’s pointless to say that he was extremely vexed that he was told so often to hit the girl.  And he felt ridiculous complaining about it to himself, he could only imagine how the little bird felt. 

 

* * *

 

 

All too quickly Sandor’s feet had carried him to her room, and he felt timid now, standing in front of the massive mahogany door, that dwarfed even him.  He was not prepared for what he had to do on the other side of it, and with a subdued, sheepish sigh he tentatively pushed at the door, cringing at the loud squeak coming from its hinges. He didn’t expect her to be up already, but there she was; squatting on the stool in front of her mirror, solemnly combing her fingers through her hair, not even turning her head to look at him as she said.

 

“I’ve been expecting you. You do remember you said you would help me, correct? Sandor?”

 

And he bowed his had to her, hiding his smile, afraid of ruining the moment; his little bird had found her courage, she would chirp needlessly no longer.

 

“Aye, Little Bird, I remember,”

 

“Good. Now close the door, please, Sandor, I have a plan,” She declared. Her voice got stronger with each word, and as she turned her gaze upon him, Sandor could see her studying him, her stare toughening, and her chin lifting in the air.  She looked regal, and for the first time since she had come to this place, she looked the part of the wolf.  You could see that she had Stark blood running through her veins, her usually gentle, imploring blue eyes transformed into unfeeling, icy orbs.

 

She was a true queen now, a Northern Queen, and his own. And she was taking charge of her own destiny. 

 

Her skin had solidified into an impregnable wall of armor, Sandor only hoped it was enough.


	5. Chapter 5

“No! I will not allow it!” Joffery thundered, his face becoming the most vivid shade of Targaryen scarlet. Sansa stood below him, on the first step leading up to the Iron Throne, her had cocked to the side, lips pouting, and hands folded in front of her gown.

 

Joffery was having a tantrum. His arms clutching the sides of the throne, his pale smooth fingers stark white against the crude curved steel. And Sansa could see a small vein on his forehead pulsing violently. 

 

“Sire, if I may? It was from your own lips that this came into action.” Sansa answered slowly, as is she were talking to a dim witted child. “I only want to please you, Your Grace, so please, give me this opportunity to,” Pushing her lips together at the end, being both coy and sarcastic.

 

Sansa’s plan, however ill-conceived, was to appear ready and willing to give herself over completely to Petyr Baelish’s control.  Under Lord Littlefinger’s watch she hoped to find an escape from the confines of the city walls, mayhap she could even find Arya, or find Jon on the Wall. She was gambling her life on the love Littlefinger had once had for her mother, and his respect for the dead. The king’s unwillingness to let her go, though, was unexpected. 

 

“You will not leave me!” Joffery raged. Sansa arched her eyebrow at him, something she would have never dared to do before.  Having caught himself, Joffery continued, breezily running his hands through his tousled hair in an attempt to appear more calm. “I mean to say, I do not want used goods, you are no good to me if Littlefinger uses you to maintain his lust for wealth.  And Gods forbid he dare deflower you himself! That would be salt in the wound! I do not want a whore with a reputation of liking old men as my Queen,”  Joffery finished, a triumphant smile playing on his plump lips, such foolish pride. He thought, no wanted, the way he talked so crudely of her virginity to spark the same fear in Sansa’s heart that had once been there.  Of all the threats to his power, Sansa’s new audacity was the most dangerous. His weak mind was susceptible to frequent highs and lows in self consciousness, and there was no greater tragedy than a self conscious king.  

 

But Sansa did not flinch, not even once, she was even having fun with this little charade of theirs. She pretended to yawn during his long winded tirade, and was rewarded by an angry twitch of Joffery’s mouth. Behind her she could her Sandor shifting from foot to foot though, he was still quite vexed with her. Sandor had been furious when she told him her plan, going so far as calling her insipid and a fool.  It did not make any sense to her why Sandor would be so upset, it was her life on the line, not his, but it was touching.  And she knew wholeheartedly that he would do everything in his power to help her survive.

 

“My lord, again, I only wish to please you,” She began once more, much urgently, but still with the same air of boredom hanging about her. “Why not have one of your own with me? A white knight perhaps?  Someone who could protect me, but not homely enough to threaten Baelish’s clients?” Sansa hoped that Joffery would see the veiled attack on Petyr’s power and send The Hound to guard her, but she could not rely on Joffery’s intelligence to help her plan pan out. So she glanced at Sandor fleetingly with a feigned sense of timidity. 

 

Sansa had planned everything to make it seem as if she were terrorized by Sandor’s presence, even going so far as forcing him to hit her in front of Joffery.  Knowing that the boy king would be displeased if she came to him without a new bruise, she had Sandor back hand her across the face. Then had made a show of falling, exaggerating how hard he had hit her, and just how afraid of him she was.

 

Joffery took the bait though, thank the seven. 

 

He sneered at her, and crossed his legs to make himself more comfortable.  “Well my dear, The Hound is the best at what he does, he will run down any man, even Littlefinger, who tries to touch you.  Besides Littlefinger can make due with fewer customers,” 

 

Snickering to himself, Joffery weighed the pros and cons to letting the she-wolf out from under his thumb. She would learn the ways of a woman, and come back to him trained in the arts of pleasure making, and Joffery thought he deserved some happiness.  But she would be gone, and so would Sandor, not that he was concerned anything between them would happen, his dog was too hideous for such a lady, but he was going to be without his bodyguard and hostage. That wasn’t to say he could not visit Sansa though, he reflected. Mother was going to be furious when, or if, she ever found out.  After stroking his chin, where a few sparse hairs were growing, Joffery reached his conclusion, wicked delight coursing through his young body.  He looked to his Dog.

 

“Hound I trust you will follow my orders well; protect my lady from roaming hands and try to scare away as many of Littlefinger’s patrons.  Do not disappoint your king.” Joffery advised, not even bothering to ask if Sandor had reservations about going.  He then turned his attention to the stony, pale creature standing below him.

 

“I will permit you to leave,” He announced, “But I will visit you once per sennight, and you will show me what you have learned,” His eyes shining with spite, Joffery could only imagine the things she would learn by living in such a well know brothel.  It sent shivers down his spine, he might even see the two whores his uncle had rented out for him on his last name day, oh what delight! He knew they would never forget him, nor he them. And he relished the idea of reenacting the same cruelties upon them again, he had not used his crossbow in quite some time.

 

“Go pack your things milady, and be back here to bid farewell to your king within the hour,”

 

“I already have all of my necessities packed, my Liege, I just ask that you permit me to visit the Sept, so I may pray that the Maiden guide me.”  Sansa needed some time to collect her thoughts, she had not counted on Joffery’s neediness.  His request to visit her once per week was a bother, and she had to fight to try and hide her annoyance. But what aggravated her further was his demanding of her to show him what she had learned, what could he possibly mean by that if he wanted her a virgin!  She guessed she would find out soon enough, although she had an inkling.

 

Joffery was startled that she had already packed her things, Sansa was becoming to crafty for her own good. He would have to see to that.

 

He hoped this would cut her down a notch, teach her her place.  Though the king was only slightly peeved that she had done her packing ahead of time, he suspected that she had ulterior motives. But Joffery’s confidence in his Dog outweighed his worry.  Yet he made a mental note to hold counsel with his Dog, not to ask, but tell him to keep her on a short lease.  Joffery was eager to see how Sansa could please him, he was only a boy, but had heard tell of ways a woman could satisfy a man using her hands and mouth.  

 

Joffery wiped his clammy hands on his doublet as he stood up, “Then yes, you may visit the Sept, but make it quick,” 

 

Curtsying prettily, Sansa was escorted out of the hall and towards the damp, grey area of the Sept.  Sansa wished then that she was of the old faith, a godswood would have given her comfort.  Despite the horrible dreams she had of them, weirwoods would always remain part of her heritage, and stand as a symbol of tradition. But in the South, the soil was brittle and cold, and rejected the roots of the ancient old Gods of the North.  And what was that saying to a Northern girl trapped in a country where her ancestors could not find root?  Sansa felt as hollow and superficial as the southern godswoods in that moment.  All confidence vanished, replaced by gooseflesh on her arms and a cold sweat that seemed to soak her to the bone.

 

This was going to be harder than she thought.

 

* * *

 

As Sandor moved to follow Sansa out of the throne hall, Joffery whistled him back.  The boy was very keen on treating Sandor like a dog.  But he could not let the child know of Sansa’s plot, so Sandor swallowed his pride once more and returned to the feet of his king.  Tail tucked between his legs.

 

“Yes, my lord?” He asked, staring at the vague scuff marks on the floor from his kneeling position.  He did not have the energy to look at the boy, so he was content to count the barely noticeable blood stains left on the throne room floor as Joffery droned on.  

 

 ** _Probably The Mad King’s lifeblood_** , Sandor pondered, fighting the urge to trace the line of crimson with his finger. 

 

His hands were what you’d expect of a man which such a loathsome outer appearance; scarred and calloused, broken cuticles and hangnails, there was dirt and blood under his nails, again blood he wasn’t sure of who it came from.  Bodiless blood seemed to be a permanent part of his life.

 

“Hound! Are you even listening to me?” Joffery stomped down the stairs to him, until the edges of the king’s shoes were visible in his peripheral.  Gold stitching on green velvet, crudely stitched lions and stags dancing on each foot. Who was this boy kidding?  Every nobleman and peasant seemed to know of the royal lineage except for the brat. He was a bastard born of a sin only the Targaryens were known for; incest between siblings. The most atrocious of crimes. Damned by every seven worshipping woman and child.

 

And yet this was their king, so what did that say about the nation?  

 

“Yes, my Liege, I wait on your every word, with bated breath,” Sandor retorted, a grin playing at the burned corners of his mouth, twisting them down uglily.  He glanced at the boy, they were practically eye to eye as it were, but the child gave him a frosty look, disdain clear on his face. Joffery hated sarcasm, especially if it was directed towards him, it reminded him of his uncle Tyrion. 

 

Rubbing his temple, his lips a firm line, Joffery exhaled heavily, “Dog, I am serious. Your king needs you, and I expect you to comply wholeheartedly, or else”. He said these words with the grace of a man three times his own age, glancing hauntingly at his hand as he spoke, but his face betrayed him. The calm demeanor with which Joffery spoke was naught but a farce.  The lad was terrified; his face pale and his eyes wide and white. But Joffery was not the kind of person to let others know how he felt.  He was very much a child that way.

 

When Joff was young, if he showed any signs of fear or sadness his father would laugh at him drunkenly, call him a girl, and warn him to get over it or get hit. His mother would try to comfort him, but every hug from Cersei seemed hollow and icy to him, as if she was not quite acquainted with loving. If anything, Joffery had learned how to hide his feelings, and as of right now he was feeling very much afraid.  He was going to be alone again, surrounded by white cloaks and the city guard, and gods forbid his own mother.

 

So Sandor looked him in the eye and asked not unkindly, “Yes? What is it you will have of me,”. Although he despised the king the boy had grown into, Sandor had known Joffery as a child.  And even though Joff’s backstory did not justify what he did, the boy deserved some of Sandor’s pity.  He was only a child after all.

 

“Thank you, Dog,” Joffery relaxed visibly at having the full attention of the older man. Sandor was the only person that Joffery respected, and it always made him feel more at ease when the hulking man paid him his due.

 

Turning on his heel, Joffery sauntered towards the small council’s room, and spoke over his shoulder towards Sandor, “Now, Dog, what I have to say is of grave importance, let us retire to a more...secure room.  One without as many ears,”.  So Sandor stood, and followed his charge slowly, his mind pounding.  Scheming was too much for Sandor, and secrets made his mind foggy.  He had only intended on being a pawn in the game of thrones, Sandor had never dreamed that he could have gotten himself so deep into this life or death chess match.

 

* * *

 

**sorry for the late chapter, I'll try to finish the 6th some time tomorrow or Friday**

**comment on this!!**


	6. Chapter 6

The room of the small council was lavish, too much so for how in debt the crown was. There were Bravossi rushes on the floor, and high backed, carved, oak, chairs.  Murals of the great houses decorated the walls, and wooden hooks sat near the ceiling, where the Mad King's dragons used to perch and watch aloofly.  The door was inlaid with gold running through its veins, and the knockers on the wood were silver lion heads, a small token from Tywin Lanister, an exaggerated wedding gift.  
  
The table in the center of the room was the crowning achievement though; a Stark grey stone table with engraved scenes of battles and conquest. Maidens danced in forest clearings, knights in shining armor paraded decapitated heads on pikes, castles were under siege, and kings bowed before gods.  It looked marvelous to the naked eye, but up close, under inspection, the carvings were dark and ghastly. There were wolves watching the girls in the forest, eyes blazing with hunger and greed, the heads planted on the pikes were women and children, their eyes lifeless and gazing, their hair saturated with blood, dripping innocent blood onto the heroes returning from war.  The castles under siege were on fire,  the carved faces of the people within looked terrified and heart broken, as if they knew what pillage awaited them.  And the gods the kings kneeled before were obese deities; drunk off of power, corrupt, their gleaming haloes twisted and wrong looking, their eyes empty, and their teeth sharp. It always filled Sandor with dread gazing upon the table, though he was already well acquainted with the dark and ghastly things that this world harbored.

* * *

  
  
He had been introduced to evil at a tender age; around the time his brother attacked him and killed their sister.  It was common knowledge that The Mountain That Rides, Gregor Cleagane, had been the one to give Sandor his scars, but it was not spoken of.  Even the small folk were too fearful to gossip about the mysterious circumstances surrounding the Cleagane household.  Even though it was rumored Gregor had raped Princess Elia before smashing her children's skulls on the wall. He had supposedly even dashed the infant prince’s head against the royal nursery's wall during the sack of King’s Landing, though it was best not to mention it.  
  
In his youth, Sandor had been a joyful child, always full of glee and mischief. He lost his youth and optimism the day he played with his brother's toy, though.  
  
It had been a stormy, grey night, many years ago. Too many to count. But Sandor could, and always would, be able to feel the flames licking at his flesh.  He would always taste the soot and be able to smell the sweet scent his skin had given off as it burned and sloughed off of his young face.  At night he would wake up from night terrors, drenched in sweat and chilled to the bone, his dreams a montage of painful memories.  How his skin became contorted and the feeling of his lips fester in the fire's heat.  How he had to change his own bandages, yellow pus oozing from his wounds, black blood caked to his face.  The smell of rotting skin and singed hair, the feeling of having his eyelashes grow back, how they itched and burned his eye.  As a child, after the incident, Sandor had blamed himself, and had fallen into a deep morose state, almost comatose; he ate little and slept less, raking his brain for what he could have done wrong to deserve such a punishment.  Why had the gods had forsaken him.  All he had done was play with his brother's toy! Gregor had been almost a man grown, so Sandor had assumed he would not mind it. How naive children can be.  
  
Yet Sandor had grown into his scars, embracing them, using them as literal armor, hiding behind his gruesome features, pretending that the shocked gasps and frightened looks did not bother him. Sandor had renounced all religion as well, regarding all gods to be pointless, amoral figure heads who cared not for the well fare of innocents, but the number of devout followers they had.  Religion was nothing to him, he deemed that putting absolute faith in an intangible thing to be ridiculous,  meaningless. To Sandor religious persons were fools, though he acknowledged that in some circumstances hoping for a light at the end of the tunnel was a better way to live than seeing the world as black and white.  So he allowed Sansa to have her incense and prayers, sparing her his cruel outlook on the world.  
  
He knew that the little bird had night terrors as well, he had heard her toss and turn and weep through her door while on guard duty. He wanted to go to her, comfort her, and tell her that she was not alone. But he couldn't.  He told himself it was because she would not want his pity, and that he did not know how to comfort people, affection was foreign to him.  But it was all lies.  
  
Perhaps out of fear of rejection he let her cry herself to sleep. Or maybe he did not want to admit to himself, or to Sansa that he was human.  A human being, capable of good would do her no good in this city, she needed a monster to protect her.  And so he would be her monster, if only to be close to her. 

* * *

  
  
Joff entered the room first and looked over the table's engraved scenes with disdain, this room held horrible memories for him.  To protect his heart from reliving them, he crossed his arms tight across his chest and stood in the doorway, looking over what power was his by birthright, trying to ignore the turmoil in his gut.  
  
Joffrey had been amazed when he had first come to the small council's room as a child; he had only seen more lavish things in his mother's bedchambers. Cersei had often held him in her lap as a small boy when she sat before her mirror and combed through her hair.  He had been forbidden to keep company with his father or his father's men, though King Robert would never have wanted Joffrey around him to begin with.  Joffrey only served to remind the late King of how he had failed to marry the woman he loved, how authority suited him ill, and how he had been saddled with the burden of living with Lannisters.  
  
As a child Joffrey had been close to his mother, spending most of the day in her company, trying on her jewels and brushing her hair for her.  Though towards evening, his father, King Robert, would burst through the door, stumbling drunk, calling for his mother.  Then Cersei would usher Joffrey from the room and close the door, her gentle green eyes steely.  And the King would drunkenly take his right, and his would be the only voice Joffrey would hear outside the door.  His mother was silent the entire time, she would let him have her body, nothing else.  
  
In his younger years, Joffrey had little to no contact with his father.  The King was a frightful beast, red faced and loud, stinking of booze any hour of the day. Robert Baratheon carried the stench of decay about him; he would drown in his summer wines and Arbor reds, and suffocate under the loose flesh around his neck, and everyone knew it.  Cersei waited with bated breath for the day her lord husband would be dead, rotting in the rocky soil.  
  
On his second trip to the small council's room Joffrey had stumbled on his father fucking a servant woman on the great table.  His father's bulky form jiggling and sweaty from exertion, his grunts and pants brutal and animalistic, the woman beneath him, yowling her pleasure with strained whines and shrieks.  It hurt Joffrey psychically to witness this unholy betrayal, the bond between a man and a woman burned into his young mind, accompanied by his mother's angry tears and his parents harsh words. Cersei had always blamed that incident for her son's sexual oddities and frustrations.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
So they crossed the threshold into the room, together, Sandor and Joffrey both feeling very bewildered and empty.  
  
Joffrey was still in a state of shock over how his talk with Sansa had gone, and was trying desperately to keep his temper in check. He hated being the loser, and was a sore one at that. Sandor on the other hand was feeling incredibly anxious; he wanted no part of the game of thrones, and wished only for the little bird's happiness and his own life to be spared any further complexities.  They did not expect anyone to be in the council room, but there sat Lord Varys and Littlefinger, laughing from opposite sides of the table. Plates of stuffed meadowlark and pickled carrots sat before them, a pitcher of honeyed ice milk between them.  Both men were known for their expensive taste and insatiable appetites. And their scheming.  
  
Sandor's stomach turned and his hand went to his sword hilt subconsciously.  He despised Littlefinger, and if it was possible he hated him more in this instant.  Sandor knew the little man would be excited to have Sansa under his watch, the sick bastard.  A growl was clawing its way up his throat, he felt inadequate standing before this man, whose fashion sense rivaled the queen's and green eyes glowed hauntingly all hours.  
  
Clapping his hands behind his back, Joffrey strode forward, arching his back to get the height advantage on these men that were his seniors.  Both lords halted the conversation to properly greet their king, standing up to bow to Joffrey.  The chairs softly creaking as Littlefinger and Varys pushed themselves from the table. Though both men had smiles on their lips and mischief deep within their eyes and they stood before the boy king.  
  
Lord Varys was the first to find his way around the table, his plump flesh moving slightly with each step.  Robed in lavender silk he made for an odd sight; an obese man with a shining dome, gliding across the Bravossi rushes on silent, small feet.  He smelled of honeysuckle and a flower that Joffrey could not name.  His rotund cheeks glistening with sweat despite the white powder he must have applied.  
  
Lord Varys bowed deep in front of him, smiling at Joffrey, though Joff detected what would have appeared to be sympathy in his eyes. And Joffrey loathed it, he felt a child again under the older man's stare.  Why does this fool look at his king with something akin to pity?  The boy sneered at the older man, his teeth bared and menacing.  
  
"Yes hello Lord Varys, I need the room. So I have to ask you, and Littlefinger to leave," Joffrey commanded, not bothering to look the man in the eyes, afraid of seeing his sympathy.  "Now,".  
  
"At you command Your Grace, your wish is my every command," Varys mumbled softly.  With an exaggerated bow and a flourish of his robe, Varys turned to the lord behind him.  Outstretching his forearm Varys cooed to Littlefinger, "Come my friend, let us retire to the garden, I hear the roses are in bloom. We could have ourselves a picnic, you and I,". Varys chuckled into his sleeve and grabbed onto Baelish's arm, falling into step with him, the two men whispering gayly at each other, synchronizing their laughter and foot steps.  At the door  Littlefinger stopped, and wrapping an arm around Lord Varys's shoulders, and cocked his head to look at Joff.  He leaned closer to the lavender man's ear and whispered something that must have been amusing for the other man giggled, covering his mouth with a hand.  Though the laughter sounded forced and insincere, nervous even.  
  
And with that they once again began walking, and were soon out of view. Only the soft sound of their footsteps could be heard, echoing through the door and hitting Joffrey's ears with tremors.  His head was in agony; and the king brought his hands to either side of his head, as if to heal the stifling pain.  
  
This was to be a dreary day, Joffrey felt weak, dizzy, lightheaded.  Only his unfathomable anger was keeping him upright instead of out cold.  He needed to be alert, ready for the month to come.  It was not fair.  To ask so much of an abandoned child, is cruel, when Joffrey needed Sansa the most she was to torn away from him.  But for longer than he expected.

 

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**I am so sorry for this super late update; spring break and my birthday, and mid terms. But I hope you guys can forgive me and keep reading! Don't forget to comment on what you think will happen/what you want to happen**

**and I promise never to be this late in updating EVER again!!!**


	7. Chapter 7

Lord Varys and Littlefinger strode down the hallway; arm in arm and with matching false faces. Varys was sweating more than usual, his pallid, loose flesh moist and sticky. It was a sweltering day, and as the plot thickened, he felt more and more like he was drowning.

Lord Baelish on the other hand was in heaven; he felt an uncommon euphoria, guilt free and giddy high that created a lazy cloud around him. His smile might have been for show, but the dark longing gleam in his eyes was genuine. Petyr had yearned for this moment ever since Cat had been denied to him. He had hungered over a woman that mirrored her beauty, charm, and ferocity for long years and many lonely nights. Many of the rejected women that looked somewhat like Catelyn Tully were now under his employ. He knew what men wanted; confidence, power, wealth, and women. And Petyr Baelish was damned if he was not going to make a dime off of the sins of others. But now he knew of a woman that could possibly surpass Lady Stark, and as an added joy she was of her blood, her kin! Her daughter! He had often indulged lusty fantasies in which he had Sansa all to himself, his property and his alone, he dreamed of doing horrible things to the girl, hearing her beg for him, for release. And now, that fool Joffrey had given her to him. Dreams could come true!

Lord Varys looked to his companion, with fear in his eyes. He knew what Baelish had planned for the girl, he knew of his daydreams. And he feared the small man’s ambition and greed. Varys dreaded how the girl would fare, poor fragile girl. Varys had always admired the cold dignity of the young woman, and had had high hopes for her after noticing how The Hound followed her around like a lovesick puppy. He knew that if Sandor stayed by her side, Sansa might have a hope of remaining intact and unsullied. But as Varys knew that Joffrey planned to have the Hound by her side, he knew that Baelish planned to separate them. It was quite the dilemma. His little birds had infiltrated Baelish’s brothels years ago, but he doubted their influence and power over the man’s actions.

He must have been frowning for Petyr stopped in his tracks and tightened his grip on Varys’s arm, and implored, “What is it my friend?” Removing his hand from Varys’s forearm. Petyr placed the back of his hand on his friend’s clammy forehead. “My, my, you are as cold as death Varys. What ails you, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Robb Stark perhaps? Viserys maybe?” He sniggered, the concerned air around him artificial.

“Oh nothing, my dear friend, I just find myself parched in this dreadful summer’s heat, I cannot wait for winter to come,” Varys caught himself and smiled weakly at Petyr, placing his hand on his and looping their arms once more. They started walking again, slow and steady, each footfall accompanied by soft whispers and murmurs. Petyr laughed once and was silent, and Varys was left brooding as they continued with their small talk and stroll.

Varys knew he had to talk to Tyrion about the day’s events, about the plotting and the wicked schemes that were to fall into place before night’s end, but he knew not how to approach the small man. Of all the people in the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister stood the tallest, his mind sharper than Ice or Widow’s Wail; he was perhaps the most dangerous player in the game. Varys would have to tread lightly, the ice beneath his feet was melting, and winter was coming.

* * *

 

Incense floated around the sept, sticky and intoxicating, like wood rot, adding a thick soupiness to the air.

The seven sided crystal lay before her, its sides manufacturing rainbows across the grey sept. She could feel the incense mingle with the humidity, a false sense of comfort, and the eyes of the Seven bore holes through her steel skin. Her hair felt heavy on her neck, she was unbearably hot, the dust on the ground had settled on her skin and gown creating a fine, sweaty sheen. She looked down at her lap, she had been sitting before the scepter of the Seven for what seemed like ages, trying to distinguish which urge was strongest; to fight or flee.

She moved her hand to her neck, to try and massage the stiffness out of it, and saw in corner of the room three small children stood before the Crone. Lead by their Septa the children sang, tunelessly, "Maiden, Mother, and Crone" a hymn aimed to praise the female aspects of the God. Each of them imitating the Crone, by holding their hands out with small candles in their palms, imitating the Crone's lantern.

Sansa could not help but think of her own late Septa; how wise the woman had been, how flies had crawled over her lifeless eyes as her head, soaked in tar, had laid upon a spike. Sansa's stomach roiled as she recalled the overwhelming stench of death that day, how her father's hair had been matted with brains, blood, and black tar, how white Joffrey's smile had been as he promised to bring her her brother's head. She felt claustraphobic and nauseous, the sandalwood incense was suddenly too much, the whispered prayers and songs from others in the sept were now too loud. She couldn't hear herself think, but she felt a vibration throughout her body, she could feel the blood beneath her skin pumping.

Clasping her clammy hands together behind her back, she stood, her knees creaking from the strain. She could hear servants whispering behind her, straining her neck she gave them a side glance.

Both homely women in rough spun shifts, one was blonde and her shoulders were shaking as she kneeled before the statue of the Mother, Sansa could hear her sniffling. Her companion was an ugly, heavyset women, older in age and was rubbing the blonde woman's back in soothing circles, her face was impassive and dignified. They were kneeling in front of the crude carving of the Mother Above and from what Sansa could gather, the more attractive of the two, the blonde, was pregnant, Sansa could hear her crying quietly, begging the Mother for forgiveness. She could also hear the other women reprimand her softly, "You do not deserve the Mother Above's forgiveness, your foolish actions are going to lead to the death of a child. You knew what you were getting into,". That was all Sansa needed to hear. She could assume the two women were discussing killing the infant through Moon Tea, before it could form conscious thought. Sansa herself had no opinion in the matter; she could understand where one party would think the tansy tea to be sinful, but she understood how others could think of the tea as a blessing as well. It was not her place to judge the actions of these women, as a high born lady her maidenhood did not solely belong to her, she needed to be pure and intact to get a better marriage. She did not own her body, she was the child of important people, her legacy would be to carry on theirs. It was her obligation and restraint.

But she was too bothered with her own problems to give the plight of the woman any more thought. As undignified as it was she was looking down her nose at them, in her naive childish mind, Sansa imagined herself at the center of the world. It was not her fault, she had been born into the right family, and just like flowers cannot choose where to bloom, Sansa Stark did not choose her parents. Nor did she choose this lifestyle of fear. But she could choose what to do now, she had to. No one else was to be trusted, not even Sandor. He was loyal if anything, but he had no control over his emotions, and that could very well cost her her life

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**sorry for the short chapter, i had to work on how to write Varys and Petyr and i also wanted to add some insight on religion and stuff** **  
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**definitely more to come! :) thanks for reading**


	8. Chapter 8

She stood to the side of the Stranger, lurking in the shadows cast by the statue's granite bulk, far from the whispers of the other worshippers.

 

However fearsome the Stranger was expressed, being the effigy of death and the unknown, Sansa found herself entranced by the idol.

 

It was made of unrefined oak, a crude medium, yet the craftsmanship of the figure was enchanting.  Every sept portrayed the Seven differently; some townships had beautiful engravings to praise the divine powers of the gods, whereas some, mostly in the North, had simple, primitive logs to indicate the human qualities of the Seven.

 

The Red Keep's Stranger was elaborately decorated, there were rubies and opals inlaid with gold painted steel, it was obvious that whomever had made it had favored the mysterious shadow archetype of the God.  It was a stone carving meant to look like a skeletal figure clothed in a hooded robe, gold streaked through it to add definition and depth.  Only the eyes, reflective red jewels, were visible under the hood of its cloak.  Everything else about the statue's body was hidden, its face shrouded by a gloomy darkness and its sleeves hollow.  The idol resonated darkness, depth, and dread, it was no wonder the Stranger was often interpreted as villainous and thus forgotten.  In the Book of the Stranger, a section of The Seven Sided Star dedicated to the seventh face of God, the Stranger was often depicted as; a skeleton with red, demonic eyes veiled by shadow, wearing a loose, hooded garment, usually with arms outstretched and cadaverous hands coming out of dark, drooping sleeves, threateningly.

 

Sansa remembered distinctly as a young girl, seeing a painting of the Stranger holding the limp, grey carcass of an infant, cradling the child's broken neck and head in its arms.  Standing beside the statue now, she felt the same rawness creep over her skin.  Anxiety began to obscure her judgement.

 

She sympathized with the Stranger; they were both outsiders, misunderstood creatures surrounded by false faces, flatterers and fools.  Sansa even pitied the Stranger, it was the psychical manifestation of human error and fear, and was loathed for all of the harsh realities that it symbolized.  The Stranger had been denied gender and worshippers, only those that prayed for death came to it, and the Silent Sisters that were sworn to its service, were equally feared and dreaded.  In most hymns the Stranger was ignored, its presence boded doom.  Sansa felt like weeping, not out of her own sadness, but out of sympathy for the ignored, godly entity before her.

 

The door to the sept swung open, its hinges screaming, Sansa did not look up but she signed inwardly.  The familiar creak and rustling of a mail shirt, and resounding stomp of a staggered, self assured walk confirmed her suspicions, Joffrey had sent one of his men to fetch her.  She stole a glance at the man and felt herself become smaller.  He was Joffrey's new favorite, although it would seem as if he were the Queen Regent's favorite, as rumors of their sexual relations had been circulating.

 

Ser Osney Kettleblack strode towards her, his hooked nose high as he glanced disdainfully down at the weeping woman at the feet of the Mother, he would have been attractive if not for the long, pink scars on his face.  She had heard that a prostitute had cut him, though she could not verify the truth to that rumor. Sansa had made a point to inquire about this man and his brothers, as they had often made passes at her, and as Petyr had once told her, knowledge is power.

 

She had asked Sandor about them, as discreetly as possible. And Sandor had told her, with obvious distaste, how the brothers were knighted after the Battle of the Blackwater, despite not actually being involved in the fight.  He had told her about how the Queen had wept with joy after Osney and his brother Osfryd had brought Tommen back from Rosby, despite Tyrion Lannister's wishes to keep the royal family separated. And she already knew about the rumors that the Kettleblack brothers had slept with Margeary Tyrell and two of her three cousins.  The last rumor had not bothered Sansa, she had heard plenty of gossip about the Tyrell girl and had dismissed all of it.

She had yet to meet her, but she knew that Lady Margeary was still in the Red Keep despite having lost Joffrey's affections.  Sansa knew for a fact that Margeary Tyrell's father, Mace Tyrell had been beseeching Cersei to have his daughter marry her second son.  It wasn't the same as marrying the first born, but the Tyrells would gain more power by being directly involved with the ruling family.  Sansa had even heard that Margeary's grandmother, Olenna Redwyne, had requested Sansa marry her grandson, Margeary's eldest brother, Willas Tyrell.  Of course, Joffrey, being the child king he was, had shot down that proposal, refusing to part with his favorite play thing.  The most shocking speculation Sansa had heard, was that Cersei, the noble and beautiful Queen Regent, was green with envy for the Tyrell girl, and was loathe to even have her in the Keep. No matter her own personal feelings toward the woman, Sansa would never have imagined Cersei to be so insecure. Though it made Sansa happy that that vindictive woman was so uncomfortable.

 

Sansa was in a trance, her fingers still on the Stranger's cloaked statue when Osney finally spotted her and approached, with a gait that implied vanity.  He evidently thought very highly of himself.

 

Bowing absurdly low in front of Sansa, Osney breezily told her, "The king has the royal palanquin ready for your departure, my Lady.  His Grace has commanded I gather you and your belongings and meet him on the steps of Maegor's Holdfast, so that His Majesty can bid you farewell."

 

Osney's calm irritated Sansa, he had nothing to worry about, he just had his orders, whereas she had to keep on her guard always.  She knew that Joffrey had planned meeting in front of the Holdfast because it was where she and the other highborn ladies had hid during the Battle of the Blackwater.  He was being vindictive, trying to in spawn fear in her heart.  And it was working, she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as Cersei Lannister's foreboding words, 'tears are not a woman's only weapon', echoed through her mind, their relevance duly noted.

 

Finding a way out of her trance Sansa replied, never forgetting her manners, "Yes, good ser knight, thank you,".

 

* * *

 

The sun was harsh, its rays stung the eyes and soaked into the red stone bricks of the keep.  Joffrey felt flushed, his eyes smarted from the sun's glare, and his neck ached from the weight of the crown.  Widow's Wail hung loosely from his hip and he absently toyed with the hilt, sweat rolled down his temple and he wiped it away hastily.  Joffrey's patience was diminishing with every passing minute.  This is ridiculous, the king should not be kept waiting. Where is that Stark bitch? He brooded pensively. To calm himself, Joffrey shut he eyes to the sun, and thought back to how titillating it had been as his crossbow bolts had sliced through Ros's flesh like Valyrian steel through butter.  He smiled and sighed reliving how her eyes had bulged out of her head, how the blood streaming down her naked body had been hot and feverish.  He could still hear her screams, loud and piercing, then rattling as she let out her last death gasp.  But he heard something else. Joffrey could hear soft footsteps, most likely small feet in slippers, and slightly closer the clinking of metal, probably mailed shoes.

 

His lady love had come back to him.

 

He kept his eyes closed, but clasped his hands, and held his head higher.  He was annoyed by excited he was to see Sansa again, and reasoned that he was just anticipating acting out a punishment.  Some nagging voice in his mind, not unlike his mother's, scolded him, and recited a mantra, "You need her. She doesn't need you".  It drove him mad, he did not need this now, he could not go back on his threats, he could not appear weak in anyones eyes.

 

The footfalls got closer and louder until they stopped, off to his right. Someone cleared their throat, probably Osney, Osney was impudent enough to do something like that to his king. Joffrey opened his eyes, and squinting into the sun, regarded them aloofly. Standing still for a moment, Joffrey decided to move things along.

 

With surprising agility and speed, Joffrey bounded to the side of the palanquin nearest him.  Pulling back the silky, light fabric that stretched across the opening to the carriage.

 

Without looking at Sansa, Joffrey bent slightly at the waist, bowing to his hostage with the grace of a king.  "My Lady, your carriage awaits". He peeked through his bangs, his crown sitting heavily on his brow; Sansa was wearing the same rose gown as she had on his 13th name day. He remembered because she had looked so lovely in it as he threatened to kill Ser Dontos, the sunlight reflecting off of her deep blue Tully eyes. Joffrey had been surprised when she spoke out to spare that fool, but she had look so entrancing that he had felt obliged to comply.  Even after as he played with the prostitutes his uncle got him, he could only think of Sansa. When he would touch himself later, he fantasied that he was hitting her back and ass with his belt, and pretended that Daisy's screams from that night were Sansa's, and that she was screaming his name. It was not kingly, he knew, but he lost himself whenever he thought of her.

 

He liked that dress, it showed off everything very well, and she was still filling it out.  Sansa had her hair down today, in the style that the Tyrell girls wore; the hair on either temple twisted to the back of the head and curled together, letting her auburn hair fall down her back in lazy waves.  She looked stunning, her neck exposed and elongated by the deep neckline of her dress.  She refused to meet his eye so he straightened up, angrily.

 

Dusting off imaginary grime from his doublet, Joffrey took slow steady steps toward Sansa and Osney. Sansa stood very tall, her back arched, an her chin held high.  She had her arm looped with Ser Osney's, but by how white her knuckles were, Joffrey could tell that she was frightened, though her eyes betrayed nothing.

 

He stopped in front of them, held out his crooked elbow, and let a lazy grin play across his face, he was trying to ease the tension though from the looks of it Sansa did not trust his smile.  She did withdraw her hand from Ser Osney's arm, and place it in the nook of his however.  Her touch light and tentative, oddly enough it made Joffrey want her to be comfortable in his arms, however absurd that seemed.  A king does not dwell on the comforts of others, only his pleasure mattered.

 

But as he clasped his other hand over her delicate pale fingers he felt her stiffen beneath his touch, some odd mixture of apprehension and loathing.

 

In an attempt to salvage the mood, he found himself saying,"Come my dear, no need to be afraid,".  Then wondering, Why in seven hells did I say that?!? Joffrey hardly had enough time to register what he had just done before Sansa opened her mouth, "You say such lovely words, Your Grace, thank you," with her cold familiarity. Joffrey could feel his patience slipping, here he was trying to show this cold, Stark bitch some genuine affection and she was treating him like a common urchin, so like that cunt to disregard his feelings like that.  Joffrey smiled through it all, though he could sense his usually alluring smile was becoming twisted and ruined as his anger boiled over, he had the acute sense of a slipping self control, he would lose himself in his fury soon.

 

Ignoring the red that threatened to cloud his vision, Joffrey guided Sansa into the palanquin.  She sat down heavily on the padded cushions, he stared at her with his hand on the curtain, she looked dignified if not frightened; the color drained fro her face, and her knuckles were white as she clenched her hands together.  Joffrey had a fleeting moment of guilt, though he could not put into words what he was feeling.  He felt a strong longing for the Stark girl, a need to have her by his side always, forever within reach.  At the same time though he lusted for her convulsions and hot blood, Joffrey dreamed of both slicing her up and holding her close.  It was an odd combination, quite contradictory and alarming, and he did not know how long he could last with her away from him.

 

He thought it would only be a month.


	9. Chapter 9

The sunlight through the silk curtains was strong, it seemed to find its way into the very depths of his mind and poke and prod at his deepest, most secret thoughts.

Tyrion Lannister tossed and turned, his ugly, misshapen face getting more grotesque as the sun hit his face and he scrunched up in pain. His grumbles got louder and louder as the sunlight intensified and focused on his face. He eventually pulled the blankets around him in a last ditch attempt to rid himself of the sun’s hurtful rays, the extra layer was, however, not enough to act as a shield against the new day’s sun. Having lost his patience, Tyrion threw back the blankets and sat back with his forearm across his brow, “Pod, dammit I have told you time and time again to get thicker drapery. How is a man to sleep when the sun seems intent on destroying my rest and vision.”

There was a rustling in the bed beside him, and without removing his arm from his brow, Tyrion tentatively placed his free hand on the bare shoulder of the young, slender, doe-eyed woman beside him. She stirred slightly at his touch but settled into his side, her hand perched on his abdomen and her head peacefully on his chest, however short it was.

“I’m sorry my sweet, did I wake you?” Tyrion’s anger subsiding the closer he felt Shae get.

She did not reply verbally, but only bundled the blankets in her fist and brought them up and over her face. Tyrion was content to stay like this forever, but the blasted sun was driving him mad and he needed to make water, though he was loathe to disturb the moment they were having. For a man who often pretended that nothing bothered him, Tyrion was a self-conscious man: he needed constant reassuring that he meant something to people, he had had trouble accepting Shae’s affection due to his own lack of positive body image and jealousy. Shae had been with him for countless months; ever since he came across her in his father’s army during the Battle of the Green Fork, yet he was still hesitant and caught off guard whenever she told him she was his.

She had been ordered to act as if she wanted him, emotionally and psychically, though Tyrion had all but forgotten that, he wanted the love to be real between them. He loved her, everything about her, her perks and flaws alike, but he knew that she could never truly love him back. His subconscious would remind him that she was a whore, her incorrigible lust for power was what kept her coming back and by his side. For her, he was nothing but a meal ticket, a tiny man that she had to endure fucking to finally achieve her dream of power and wealth. His dream had been to settle down with Tysha, another past mistake and whore of his, but now all Tyrion dreamt of was finding a nice home where Shae and he could live in prosperity and peace until the end of their days. Funny how luck never seemed to favor The Imp.

He must have been dozing off again because he did not feel her mouth until it was halfway down the shaft of his penis, she had a way of catching him off guard with her prodigious sexual appetite. He glanced down but the sheet obscured his view of his lady love, he could feel her lips on his manhood, but could only see the rising and falling of the sheet as she took his dick.

Oh this euphoria was not uncommon, this was how his days usually started, no wonder he was such a morning person!

After a while the momentum got faster and she put her hand around his shaft pumping it up and down using her spit and his pre-cum to reduce any friction. He could feel her tongue begin to touch his scrotum, something new they had been trying. It was magnificent! He saw stars as Shae’s licks became more and more confident, until she finally began to suck at it and pull his balls into her wet awaiting mouth, her hand still pumping away at his penis all the while. He took his hand off of his forehead and put it on the bulge under the sheets where her head would be. She understood right away and began to kiss the tip of his penis, using her thumb under the tip to lightly flick upwards, and tracing the prominent vein on his shaft with her tongue. His lips parted in a lecherous moan, carnal grunts escaping his lips as Shae choked on his penis, the wet gurgling and soft whimpers pushed him closer and closer to the edge. He needed to cum, but he wanted to see her face as she poured her heart and soul into this disgustingly heartfelt action. Tyrion grabbed a handful of blanket and yanked it, throwing it bodily off of the bed. Shae looked up in surprise from between his legs, her mouth a mere centimeters above the tip of his penis, a mixture of spit and pre-cum falling from her mouth onto his manhood and thighs.

“I’ve seen your beautiful face and my day is made,” He growled softly, “Now let’s finish it together my sweet, then its your turn you damned temptress,” Tyrion laughed lazily.

Shae squinted at him mischievously, “As you wish, my little lion,”. And when back to work, this time with a fervor, looking him straight in the eye as she took his penis in her mouth and choked on its entirety, her hand gently alternating between caressing his scrotum and prodding at his asshole. This was maximum pleasure, he could get used to this. Tyrion was just about to release his seed and he hated messes, so he caught Shae’s eye and nodded, she put her mouth over the tip especially, just far enough down his shaft to catch all of it.

And like that is was over, and eternity of pleasure and grunts and moans gone in one sweaty hot moment, as Shae swallowed his cum. Tyrion was exhausted, he knew there must be a lot of effort in giving fellatios, and was grateful to Shae for letting him have that. It was only right, he knew, to show your appreciation when someone does something kind to you, but he just could not muster up the energy to get between her thighs and test how far his tongue could go into her cunt. He would pleasure his lady later, preferably late at night so he could have the satisfaction of having her scream his name loud enough to wake up Bronn, the sellsword hated that more than anything.

“Was that good milord?” Tyrion opened his eyes only to have Shae’s wide brown eyes inches from his face, the mystery and subtle child like qualities in them augmented by their close proximity.

Reaching out and cupping her face, Tyrion rested his head against hers and sighed jokingly, “Well my sweet it could only be better with wine”, to which she scoffed at him. Closing his eyes, Tyrion chuckled, “Of course my love, you are the light of my life, nothing you could do would bring me unhappiness. You are mine and I am yours,”

They stayed like that, two lovers just enjoying each others company, for several more moments before they were interrupted by a soft knocking at his door. They both recognized that insecure knocking as Podrick Payne, the shy, introverted, distant cousin of Ser Ilyn Payne.

“M-m-my Lord Hand, have you rested well? You have a visitor, my lord. May I enter?” Pod’s hesitant voice reached them from where Shae and Tyrion lay embraced, their bodies intertwined and slick with sweat. Tyrion repressed an impatient sigh, Pod had yet to learn that he did not have to be so formal when it was just them. Shae swatted Tyrion’s chest playfully, “Do not be so harsh on the boy, he is still learning. Remember when he was too embarrassed to look you in the eye?” She reminded him, covering her mouth with a dainty hand as she giggled.

Looking at Shae and smiling, Tyrion sat up and called out to Podrick, “Yes lad, I have slept well, though my morning has been the epitome of good living. You may enter Pod,”

“T-thank you my lord, your guest today is small council member, Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys.”

Sitting up straighter, Tyrion frowned, What could Varys want? And at this hour? “Yes, yes all good, now enter. I fear this meeting may be short, I have yet to relieve myself,”

Giggling like a small girl, Varys swung the door open, and stepped into the room on small, robed feet. His perfume wafted into the room seconds before he was even fully visible, coating everything in a sticky sweetness. He wore a simple robe, with a deep neckline, and long flowing sleeves that tapered off into drooping points, that reached his knees. The robe itself was a dab one, surely not befitting a man on the small council, but Varys wore it well, adorning his plump neck and fingers with complex jewelry to balance out the blandness of his attire. He made for an odd sight; a grown man wearing a woman’s robe, facial powder running down his face due to perspiration, his bejeweled hand hiding his mouth as he giggled like a maiden. Though he may very well be one of the most dangerous men in all of Westeros.

Tyrion made sure not to trust him too much, he called the man his friend to be sure, but he had seen first hand what trust could d to you in the capitol. Take Ned Stark for instance, that honorable bastard had kicked it because he thought he could trust not only Lysa Arryn, but Petyr Baelish. The fool. Tyrion would make sure never to trust anyone in this viper’s pit called a capitol, he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders, no matter how deformed it was.

Pulling his breeches back on under the blankets, Tyrion detangled himself from Shae’s tired form. “And what do I owe the pleasure of your sudden, unwanted intrusion, friend?” Tyrion joked as he hopped down from his high perch upon his feather bed.

Removing his hand from his mouth, Varys smiled coyly, “Always a pleasure to see you too my friend. I come here with some very significant information; Sansa Stark has been given to Baelish for, well, special training. It’s all very unpleasant and that poor girl has my most sincere pity,” At this point in his tirade, Varys turned his head to the side, and artfully sniffled. He’s a good actor, Tyrion thought sarcastically. Wiping his eyes on a sleeve, Varys turned back to Tyrion and Shae, ho had perked up hearing the Stark girl’s name mentioned. Shae had been acting as her handmaiden, and even though she was close to the girl this was the first time she had heard about this. “Her Queen Regent is very cross, and His Royal Highness seems to be adamant on having his future bride learn the ways of the world. And my little birds have informed me that Petyr seems to be a tad bit too happy at this new prospect. It is common knowledge that Petyr loves the girl’s late mother, he has even boasted about taking her maidenhead, the scoundrel. But I voice my concern to you, and only you, I think Littlefinger is harboring inappropriate thoughts towards the young miss, and I fear for her safety and purity.” Tyrion walked to a table in the middle of his room, and grabbed for the wine skin. Taking three cups he returned to his bed.

Holding the cups out to Shae and Varys, Tyrion proposed a toast, “Well it seems as if Baelish thinks he can outsmart us my friend, and we just cannot have that, can we? I propose we pull the rug out from under him, if we tell the Queen about our suspicions then no doubt my sister will take it as a personal slight and take her revenge. Though if we do not bring this to her, Sansa might be able to finally escape my wretched nephew, and who knows maybe she can come to love Littlefinger.” Varys and Shae reached out and took their individual cups from his hand, and Tyrion poured them a Dornish strongwine, darker than blood, and sweeter than vengeance. It was the perfect wine for scheming. When everyone had had a sip, and attested to its vintage, Tyrion continued. “So my friends, what I am trying to say is; we should wait. Let us watch this transaction closely, it is too soon to say whether or not it will achieve success or failure, and we need to be on the winning side to stay alive. If we warn Cersei and nothing transpires, then she will suspect us of treason, and the gods only know she has been waiting for an opportunity to take my head. But if we do not warn her, and Sansa escapes then either we deny knowing anything or we assist the Stark girl. We must play this game of thrones carefully.” After a long swig of the wine, Tyrion cleared his throat, his speech apparently over.

Varys set his cup down, and sat on the edge of the bed, with his powdered hands folded in front of him. “So you are saying we watch from behind the scenes? And when we see a shift in power we lean with it?” He clarified, though it seemed as if he had expected Tyrion to suggest just that.

Clapping his hands he stood up again, “Well my friend, and my lady,” He began, bowing to Tyrion and Shae as they sat one still under the sheets, the other his wine cup still lingering on his lips, “I will have to warn my little birds to tread lightly, for Baelish will no doubt imagine us to interfere. And I will have a little chat with the Hound, before he leaves.”

Bringing the cup down slowly, Tyrion spoke up, “So Joffrey has sent his most prized possessions to Baelish’s, huh? Really how that by can be my nephew and be so insipid is beyond me, must be a side effect of being a bastard made through incest. I only hope that Tommen and Myrcella grow up to be more sensible. Well, at least we don’t have to worry about the Stark girl getting mistreated, Sandor will protect her until his last breath. The Hound has puppy love for a Wolf Queen, how fitting. Don’t you think Shae?” To that he was rewarded a playful whack and a light peck.

Wrapping his arm around Shae’s shoulders Tyrion gulped down the last of his wine and bid farewell as Varys strode to the door, “Goodbye my friend, and have a lovely day, I only wish I was the last Lannister you have to see today,”

Varys hesitated by the door, his hand on its knob and his back to them. Finally he turned around to them and bowed, “Oh Tyrion you know you are my favorite lion, farewell dear friend, until we meet again,”.  And with that he was gone, and Tyrion was left to ponder just exactly what Baelish had planned.


	10. Chapter 10

Children could be seen from behind her palanquin’s silk wall, they were tiny things, their bodies sharp and angular from malnutrition. These poor, unfortunate souls only had three fates; die young and miserable and starving, sell their bodies and souls to the highest bidders, or turn into cut throats, rogues that preyed on men, women, and children alike, as long as their bellies and wallets could grow in size. She felt a deep, burning pity for these wretched things, though she could not empathize with them.

Winterfell had been a prosperous place, there was always enough to eat for everyone, and if one family went hungry, the entire town would ration their food. She had grown up behind high, stone walls, where she could neither see nor experience poverty. She wanted to help the children that stood barefoot, in ankle deep mixtures of mud and feces, but what could she do, she was a hostage to the royal family, she only rarely saw sunlight and tasted fresh air. It was not like she was kept in a dungeon or one of the Black Cells, but Joffrey did not trust her outside with or without his men, he was a jealous vindictive little bastard who wanted to gloat over his treasures. Sansa was lucky he even went through with this plan.

But by the gods the children of this city were alien to her, they looked like kids but they had the eyes of battle weary knights, large, and listless, with nothing youthful or innocent in those irises. They watched from narrow, seedy alleys and broken, splintered doorways as her group marched on, the soldiers sworn to protect the city and its people all but oblivious.

Passing by a street vendor she saw what looked to be an eight year old pickpocket an old man waiting in line. The man was denied food and shoved bodily away by the hungry masses and from her vantage point Sansa could see the child limping away, the club foot she had not noticed before weighing it down. Sansa couldn’t tell which was more pitiful.

Around a bend in the road her little parade of royal guards happened upon a grotesque scene.

Young women, maybe ten or twelve years old were parading in the same revealing slips that whores wore. What was more disturbing was the army of urchins, ranging from old merchant men to milk maids to young pock-faced squires, that were whistling and throwing money at the children. Sansa thought she might cry as an old, wheezing, hunchbacked man stepped forward and shoved a coin purse at the leader of these young whores. He pointed a long, grey, bony finger at a girl off to the left, a young thing with the body of a cadaver, all bone and lifeless eyes. From what Sansa could tell the girl had blonde hair, but she had so much dirt and filth in it that what hair remained unmated appeared to be a dark brown. It even looked as if the poor thing had some disease as well, all over her body were yellow welts, and oozing splits in her taunt skin. As the girl looked up, Sansa realized, aghast, _**She couldn’t be older than Arya!**_

The child was brought forward by the leader of the group, a short haired lass with more meat on her bones and an indifferent, stolid expression caked onto her gaunt face. The mousey girl attempted a curtsy to the old perverted bastard, her slip falling off of her shoulder to reveal a deep discolored clavicle. Much to Sansa’s disgust the cretin licked his thin, pale lips at her, eyeing her like something to be devoured.

It was too much for her, Sansa buried her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, yet despite her sense of morality, peeked through her fingers as they finally managed to find a path down the crowded street. The girl and the old man were gone, she couldn’t say where they went nor she did not relish the thought of what might happen to the young child. It was all too unwholesome.

She stared unseeing as her guards advanced towards her disagreeable new fate, their weary footsteps matching the anxious thumping of her heart. Everything was gruesome; the smells, the sights, the sounds, everything seemed putrid and decaying. Sansa tried not to look at what was going on around her, but like watching a battle she could not tear her eyes away from the filth that surrounded her. Children being stepped on, kicked, beggars being spat on and beaten, women with torn clothes and dead eyes staggering around, drunk on misery, bruises on their thighs, necks and backs. This was the epitome of despair, every person and animal in this city was dead on their feet. **_This is the capitol of our country, where things are supposed to be better! Have the gods forsaken us?_** She pondered, clutching a perfumed bit of cloth to her nose as a defense against the odors that split her heat and hurt her heart.

Sansa’s eyes stung, the stench of raw meat and fecal matter baking in the sun was overpowering, she could only hope, despite herself, that Petyr’s establishment was more to her taste.

Leaning over and pulling back the silk curtain, Sansa asked the guard closest to her, “Good Ser, could you tell me how much further we have until we reach our destination?” These were Joffrey’s men so she was pleasantly surprised when the man turned to her, acknowledged her question and gave her a straight forward reply without a threat or slur thrown at her. It was satisfying to be treated like a person, not a trophy or object meant for the sexual gratification of others.

“Yes, milady we have only a little further to go. If you look up, over the buildings on this street, you can see the roof of Lord Baelish’s place,” He replied, his steel visor reflecting the light into her eyes, but Sansa followed his finger and indeed, just like he said, she could see three tiled spires above the neglected buildings.

She nodded her thanks and relaxed against the plush pillows inside the palanquin. Her head was starting to pound, and she could hardly hear herself breathing, Sansa couldn’t tell is it was fear or nerves but whatever it was all she wanted to do was sleep and forget all of this. She just hoped that Lord Baelish would prove to be a hospitable person and pleaded with the gods that there would be some cool refreshment awaiting her. She did not want to be a bothersome guest but she needed to unwind and plan out her strategy. Her entire scheme rested on the hope that Petyr Baelish would honor his love to her mother and help her escape this wretched city and the vile royalty that ruled it. She just needed to come up with a way to broach the subject with him, in a way that made it seem like it was his idea and his duty to follow through. She already had Sandor wrapped around her little finger, he would do anything she asked and she was praying that Petyr would as well. Sansa was not the best at subtle manipulation, but she knew that she would have to resort to drastic measures to liberate herself.

Sansa rubbed her temples and sighed, she was not exactly confident in her ability to play the game of thrones, but she desperately needed help. All she could do now was put her faith in the gods that they would find her allies and aid her when she needed it most.

She was still rubbing her temples when the palanquin stopped and one of the guards rapped on the side, “My lady we have arrived,”.

Sansa shifted her body towards the curtain and peered her head out, the building was immense. The stone was green with chipped yellow paint, a sturdy wooden door, reinforced with iron that swirled and twisted across the front of the door. There were also odd little lanterns hanging on either side of the large door, but what was most disconcerting were the windows; low and square with poor quality glass that had ripples and waves, and steel bars vertically across them. The building must have been three or four stories high, and although the windows on the first floor were cheap and frightening, the higher she looked the more likable the brothel became. There were large windows, very artfully made and decorated, even some with stained glass. A few of the larger windows had wooden shutters and a sparse handful had balconies with exotic flowers adorning them. The roof was slanted with overlapping red brick tiles and Sansa could see smoke coming from the far side so she assumed a chimney had been built into the house. To her sock, Sansa found herself entranced in the simplistic beauty of the mansion, she loved it, and fighting against all of her better judgement she could not wait to see the inside. Sansa hoped that the inside quarters would be as beautiful as the outside, she had an inkling that they would be, Petyr Baelish was known for his style, among other things.

She must have been staring because the guard that had knocked was waving his hand impatiently, she had completely ignored his gesture of help. He had been holding his had out to help her out of the palanquin, which was awkward to scramble out of when it rested on the ground.

Apologizing profusely Sansa accepted his hand and climbed out of the palanquin, trying to save face by curtsying to him. She had never met this man before, and was shocked by how he bowed to her in return. It was usually unheard of for men, let alone Joffrey’s men, to show her any general kindness. But this man seemed to genuinely genial, it aroused her suspicions but it was warming none the less. If anything it brightened her mood and raised her spirits, Sansa felt less unnerved about this new environment and role as student.

She straightened up and thanked him, “Thank you good Ser knight, and please give your captain and your men my thanks for me,” and on a second thought added, “And please be safe as you go back to the Keep,”.

She was walking towards the door when the man responded to her, “Yes milady, and you have a safe journey as well,”. Sansa knew deep down that he was just responding with as much formality and concern as the situation dictated, but it still touched her for this stranger to show concern for her well being. And with that she picked up the few bags that she had been permitted to bring along with her, and with her head held high, confidently walked towards the massive door.

* * *

 

Petyr was lounging behind one of the false walls in the lobby of his establishment. He had false walls and mirrors everywhere. He could not see through the walls, but they were paper thin, so overhearing hushed whispers was elementary. He had even installed peep holes that only he could use, it was all under the pretense that he was always looking out for the safety of his girls, but Petyr used them for himself. Mentally marking the pros and cons of the women that worked for him, learning what their talents were and what they needed to work on, and listening in on the spies that Varys and Cersei had paid to infiltrate his brothels. He knew they were always watching him, and he could guess that Varys had some scheme in mind to either stop him or aid him in his removal of Sansa Stark from King’s Landing. He was slightly put off that he would have to come up with a plan all on his own, he assumed that the Stark girl would either be too dimwitted or fearful to assist him in plan making.

But none the less, he could not wait for her. She was beautiful! And most likely still a virgin pure, oh how he relished the look on a woman’s face her first time. Petyr would usually be the one to sleep with the virgin girls that came to him, he would still tell men that they were virgins and unbroken, but what harm could a little white lie do? He would have his way with them and then instruct his older girls to teach the newbies how to facade as virgins, what facial expressions, noises and requests to make. Littlefinger did not think himself an evil man; just one who knew what he wanted and how to get it. A friend had once drunkenly compared Petyr’s lust for power akin to Joffrey’s and of course that man had to be silenced. Petyr could not stand to be called anything less than genius, and he wold definitely not let anyone slander the good name he had worked so hard to make for himself.

He sipped at bronze chalice, the Pentoshi pale amber reviving his taste buds, and stroked at his goatee in thought, he knew he would have to accommodate some of Joffrey’s guards, but he had not been able to figure out which or how many. Either way he would win them over or have to kill them. He preferred killing them, the carpets in the lobby were red enough as they were, no one would notice a few more blood stains, and besides, a live man may have his tongue loosened by drink or torture or women, where the dead may never talk.

He put his goblet on a table beside him as he heard footsteps approaching the wall, leaning forward Petyr heard the distinct soft slump of someone sitting in one of the cushions placed near where he sat.

Through the din of the customers playing with the girls in the lobby, Petyr could perceive the small voice of a girl long under his employment. Her name was Marian, a soft thing, all nose and freckles, short curly carrot hair, large emerald eyes and a nice plump body with above average tits. She was a favorite because of how easily she blushed and stammered, her coy act just that, an act. When the men were gone and the women were allowed to do so as they pleased she was the rowdiest, belting out drunken ballads and dancing on tables. But she was good at what she did, and she was the best at making even lowlife scum feel important and manly.

“Milord, the royal guards and their palanquin has just arrived, and I have received word from the captain of the Gold Cloaks, that Sandor Cleagane will be arriving shortly after sunset. And for Lady Stark, we intercepted her before she could make it into the lobby, just as you asked milord, she is being shown her rooms by Allaya. If it please milord, we will set an extra place for The Hound at the dinning table,” This was a turn of events. Petyr found himself surprised for the first time in quite some while. The Hound? Here? He couldn’t wrap his mind around it, why in the seven hells would Joffrey send both the Stark girl and The Hound? Surely he must know the dangers involved by sending your two greatest assets away. Petyr suppressed a chuckle at the thought of Cersei drinking herself into an early grave over the stress this must be putting on her. But no matter, he could work this to his advantage, everyone in the royal court had heard about Sandor’s astonishing tenderness in regard to Ned’s eldest daughter.

He leaned back again, picked up his drink and played with the rim of his cup, tracing the engraved mockingbirds flying and flitting around. **_Yes_** , he though, **_this is going to be a very interesting night_**.

 

* * *

**this chapter is eh alright, i might revise it later, so please comment on what you liked/disliked**

 


	11. Chapter 11

The wine sloshed, spilling itself over her hand. The sticky red liquid reminded her of the blood that had flowed from her son’s arm after that Stark bitch had set her wolf on him.

If she had been a man, a knight or young lordling, she would have shown that girl true pain, made her suffer, broke her in unimaginably cruel ways. But this world was too unforgiving, it gave her a cunt and skirt when she alone had more balls than most of the drunken fools that paraded around her.

Cersei could not sit still, she slammed her cup down on the simple metal stand that occupied the space next to her, wine splashed over the edge, but she paid it no mind. She was going to drink herself into an early grave, just like her ass of a husband had. Her family, immediate and extended, was full of cowards and sneaks, drunks and bastards; her own father had sold her off for political standing, her twin brother was once an honorable man, but was now a craven, one-armed dolt, yet her youngest brother took the cake, he was the monster she had always believed him to be, with a twisted face and personality. But her son, her baby, was destined to destroy the kingdom, he had already instigated one war, no one knew how many countless others would be fought because of his recklessness! Joffrey was going to kill her; not only was he a simpleton, he was sadistic and prone to idiotic rages, a child with the ego of a man.

Gods where did she go wrong with that one? Had she coddled him too much? She regretted not having Joffrey around Jaime enough when he was still an impressionable child. A boy needs his father, his real father, not that fat old fool who would sweat and murmur ‘Lyanna’ while he climbed on top of her. Now her first born son was a spoiled boy who didn’t even listen to his mother. She had warned him not to anger the Northern houses, but did he listen? He went back on his word to send that honorable bastard, Ned Stark, to the Night’s Watch and had decided to chop off his grey head in front of the common people and his daughter. Cersei did not love or even like Sansa Stark, but she could empathize with the girl, first her father dies in front of her, his life’s blood splattering the ground as the masses cheer, then her mother and brother are murdered in cold blood. Joffrey could only be relied on to to the unthinkable, just recently he chose the Stark girl over the Tyrell woman had given Cersei migraines for a fortnight.

But this was the last straw, the camel’s back had finally been broken.

She knew that the Stark girl must have done something to provoke her Joffrey into sending her away, but in her fury Cersei could not fathom what could have driven her eldest son to act so rash and juvenile.

Huffing she reached out and took the glass again, taking a deep lasting gulp. She tilted her head back and let the savory fluid course down her throat, feeling as it spilled down her chin and soaked into the front of her gown. She didn’t care how many gold dragons this dress cost, she needed to get good and drunk.

The familiar cloud set in on her mind and for the first time that day she felt at ease, a relaxed serenity bringing with it a dulling of her senses and thoughts. When she realized that nothing was going down her throat, Cersei exhaled angrily and pushed herself from her seat, the stiffness in her joints acting as an unwelcome reminder of her aging body.

That was another thing to brood over, however, for now she had to concentrate on implanting seeds of doubt within her son’s mind. If he was going to recognize that he had made a mistake she would rather he admit it himself. Maybe then he would fix it.

Staggering, Cersei lurched towards the jug of sweet red that had recently been imported from The Reach. She found that as the days got longer and her tits began to sag she enjoyed the sweet things more; she remembered an incident a few months back when she had requested lemon cakes, only to have that Stark whore pipe up that they were her favorite. Giggling to herself, Cersei recalled the forlorn look on Sansa’s face as she had forbade the cooks to ever make her lemon cakes again. Frankly it was a rather vindictive thing to do, but Cersei could not have that beautiful young woman enjoy life and whatever foods she wanted when she herself could not. If anything, Cersei believed that she was helping Sansa adjust to the real world, maybe next time she wouldn’t speak so freely in the presence of a superior.

* * *

 

Joffrey was never quiet when he touched himself. As he was now.

Sansa had only left yesterday but he was forlorn and found himself thinking about her more every hour. Was she healthy? Had anyone touched her? What was she learning? He liked to think that she was learning to do wonderful, dirty things. He honestly could not wait until he could see her and find out just what she had been taught.

He found it fun to imagine all the things she could do now, all the things he could do to her. Joffrey was touching himself far too often to be deemed kingly, but he was so busy coming up with new ideas and scenarios. He preferred to lie in his bed, completely nude, whenever he got it in his head to masturbate, moaning and grunting Sansa’s name. He knew what to do, and exactly how to do it to bring a swift and powerful orgasm. He was actually unusually picky about it, he did not feel like he could trust anyone else to pleasure him, it was a delusion that he had conjured up, that no one would ever be able to satisfy his needs better than he could. A delusion created by a life time of being let down and disappointed by everyone but himself.

That did not stop him from fantasizing though, about Sansa’s delicate hand wrapped around the base of his penis, the look in her eyes as her hand pumped up and down with a furious tempo. He would often picture Sansa’s perfect body under his, their sweat mingling as she closed her eyes and her hips jerked into his thrusts, his favorite fantasy was tying her hands and feet up and fucking her so hard that she had bruises. Choking her with one hand and rubbing that nub women liked so much with his other. Sometimes he would pretend she was on top of him, her tits bouncing as she humped him, pushing his erection further and further into her cunt. When he dreamt about this he would often picture himself sucking at her breasts as she moaned his name, her hair cascading onto his face. She would always ask to cum in his fantasies, and he would always deny her, telling her to be a good whore for him. And in his childish day dreams he would, always hesitantly, indulge in the thought of collapsing next to her and stroking her body until she fell asleep in his arms. He both wanted her to hurt and be comfortable, it was a confusing sensation.

But some part of him acknowledged that she would probably be too afraid of him to enjoy it or just plain unwilling.

He did not have too much of a problem with the willingness, his mother had tried to drive it home that sex should always, under all circumstances be consensual, but he wanted her to fight back. It did not have to be real, he still subconsciously wanted her to be happy, but he would like to get rough. Just thinking about how she had cried when his Kingsguard has stripped and beaten her after her brother’s treason, got him aroused. Joffrey knew that she had no part of it, but back then he had been so ashamed of how he touched himself to her image that he needed to compensate for his lust with violence.

He was so excited to see what she would learn at Petyr’s, almost too giddy. But he also was going to miss being able to see her whenever he wanted to. It made him angry and embarrassed to miss her, but he did. He wanted to grab her chin and force her to look at him, the sad, pleading look in her eyes always got him hard. Sometimes he would run his hand down her neck and trace her clavicle with his thumb, oh how he wanted to hear her gasp for air. He desperately wanted to touch and kiss and bruise and bite every inch of her, but she could never know that he wanted her so badly. To her, their lovemaking would just be one of her duties, so he had to facade as if he felt the same. He had to hold back every time she looked at him after she had been hit, her face flushed and her eyes watering. The viciousness inside him wanted to see her head fall back and her lips part in lustful abandon, he wanted to make her cry with pleasure and pain, scream his name to the gods. But at the same time a more sensitive side of him, a part of his personality he had all but hid away, wanted her to lie with him, not fucking or touching, just peaceful sleeping, in a bed that was theirs and theirs alone.

He wanted to own her body, but also her soul.

That sappy stuff never helped him when he pleasured himself though, it just made him confused. Joffrey wanted to be a man more than anything, and the only men he had grown up around were cold hearted, and merciless, who treated women as objects and trophies. Never once had he heard a man in his life talk about how great it felt to share a bed with someone they loved, or how a woman’s smile could brighten their day. So Joffrey was afraid to admit, to himself or others, how happy it made him that Sansa would be his wife one day, that they would share a life together, and that maybe, he could be the one to make her laugh and smile. It was true that her smile brightened his day, but he always watched from afar as she smiled to herself or others, she never did for him. And that hurt something in Joffrey, something that was buried under hate and malice. He resolved that he would her smile one day. Though not in the near future, one day he would make her happy again.

* * *

 

At least she had her refreshing drink.

Sansa sat, bewildered at a crudely made wooden table, in what appeared to be a common area and kitchen combined. There were women lounging around, drinking, gambling, and cooking all around her. Every single one of them she presumed to be a whore off duty, she rationalized this by the way a stout, manly woman would occasionally appear in the doorway of a long dark hallway and call a name. And who ever had been called would sigh and walk down the hallway with the masculine woman. A few that had left in the short time Sansa had been sitting there had left behind articles of clothing, taking them off and leaving them draped on chairs and cushions, or just haphazardly flinging them around. Sansa had tried to refrain from staring, but to be quite frank these women were beautiful, they came in all shapes and sizes and skin tones. What made all of them beautiful was not their bodies, but how confident they were in themselves, Sansa looked down at her girlish figure and wondered if she would ever look or feel as beautiful as these women felt. She knew she was a pretty girl, but she was still filling out and it would be a while before she had the same womanly builds as the whores that nonchalantly relaxed here.

Now that she thought about it, Sansa did not really even know where ‘here’ was, she had been interrupted mid knock by a girl around her own age that had introduced herself as Allaya Flower, a bastard of some lord of the noble house Meadows. She had shoulder length, blindingly, golden hair with deep, green eyes, fair skin, that seemed to redden quickly and shoulders that were sprinkled with freckles. She was a chatty girl and had asked Sansa if she was hungry without really bothering for an answer. Allaya had promised to show Sansa her rooms only after, teasingly, warning her she had to eat all of what was given to her. Yet when they arrived in this common area Sansa had found a tray piled high with the most delicious lemon cakes she had ever seen. She hadn’t had one since Cersei had forbidden her any, and had been shocked when she saw them. Allaya had reassured her that Petyr had inquired about her favorite foods and drinks and clothing, as to make her stay more pleasurable. Sansa was honestly touched and felt close to tears as Allaya went on to illustrate the effort and care that had gone into making sure that she felt welcome and at home.

Sansa was having quite a nice time actually, this was the first time in what seemed like forever she had been able to really talk to a girl her own age, ever since they took Jeyne away. She found herself laughing and gossiping with this strange new girl within the hour, Allaya was a delight to talk to. They shared lemon cakes and honeyed milk and when it was finally time to show Sansa her rooms, Allaya grabbed her hand and held onto it, pronouncing them friends.

At the doorway, Allaya let go of Sansa’s hand, which she found herself oddly worried by, had she done something to make this girl dislike her? But Allaya just turned around, straightened out her legs, placed her hands on her hips, and with her most solemn expression, dictated the layout of the building.

“Alright Sansa, you should probably know how and why the place is set up this way. The front entrance is for the new girls to get the hang of putting out for the cheap bastards that come in for a quick rub down, pardon m’language. You are not to go there do you understand? Those men are dangerous and usually drunk by dawn, and more deadly than winter, if you catch my drift,” Stepping closer to Sansa, Allaya gripped her shoulders and shook her gently. “It’s only to protect everyone that you do not go out there, and never alone, please understand. And for extra protection there are also fake walls on all of the floors except the fourth, so that if a girl needs help someone will come, we all work those guard duties. Oh! And there are no individual rooms first floor, the men that come in cannot afford them.” Moving back to the entrance of the hallway, Allaya turned around again and pointed a finger at Sansa. “The next floor is special, it is divided in two, and has individual rooms, some for us and some for clients. The second floor is for women who come looking for women, we only employee a few men here and they only cater to men, so they go to those rooms too. The customers have one staircase that they use, and we have another, got that?”

To which Sansa stammered a hasty, “I think so,”.

Nodding Allaya continued, “Good, good. Okay now remember this, everyone starts out with a room on the second floor, if Lord Baelish says you have improved, you get moved up a level, literally and metaphorically. You get a room on a higher floor, which is always a drastic improvement, and clients who want you get charged more. It’s a hierarchy here.” Allaya seemed to becoming bored with this long winded introduction, she was leaning against the door frame and peering at her hand. “Men with money use the third floor, and again the third floor is cut in half, with some dorm rooms and some client rooms. Like the housing system, the higher the floor the nicer the accommodations for sex. But don’t forget the fake walls, they are on every floor but the fourth, and I’ll get to that. There are two staircases leading up to the third floor but not the the fourth, the fourth floor has Lord Baelish’s room, if he chooses to stay here, and for women who are deemed worthy. You will have a room up there, well, because you’re you,” The girl said with a laugh. Sansa was grateful for that, but she didn’t know if she felt one hundred percent okay with it, some of the women might give her a hard time about it.

Sensing her discomfort, Allaya laughed again, “Don’t worry, the girls here all know who you are and they have been warned against messing with you, I mean you come with one hell of a body guard. Who will, and I apologize for this, be sleeping in the same room as you, we have a cot set up for his lordship the Hound, set up. And besides that there’s nothing really else...oh I almost forgot! I didn’t tell you about where we are now! We are standing in the building’s one and only kitchen, usually we all eat down here, one weird family. But it is not mandatory to eat here unless Lord Baelish has a special guest or event. We all come down here to hang out as well, and as you can see if you think a client will want you, you need to be here. We won’t go looking for people. Down this hall we come out behind one of the fake walls, and from there you can use one of the other doors to get out on the main room. Every fake wall has at least one door leading out to a hallway or room, they are usually very well hidden and only open from the inside. Like a client can’t get behind one of the walls. Lord Baelish has thought of everything, he even has one or two men behind the fake walls of each floor for security purposes, they have rooms on the second floor,” Sansa definitely did not expect this, she didn’t want to be around Lord Baelish, let alone six possible other men.

Allaya was proving to be very skilled at reading people, she sensed Sansa’s discomfort and immediately spoke up, “Oh don’t worry Sansa, they are eunuchs, they have no interest in us, and they really are nice people. And last thing okay? You can only find the staircases that we use behind the fake walls, and our staircases branch off at every floor and off of every staircase is a hallway, on both sides, and those are where the rooms are where we live. You can decorate your room however way you want, but the two rules are; no clients back here or in your living quarters. Lord Baelish is a stickler for that, he doesn’t want the common person knowing about the fake ways, the staircases, or where the girls actually live.”

This was much more complicated than Sansa had believed it would be, whatever sense of comfort from chatting with Allaya had dissipated, her heart was beating too loud, and her head was beginning to hurt again. She could feel the color drain from her face as a sudden spout of dizziness set in.

“Allaya, I really don’t mean to be a bother, but could you please show me to my room. I fear that this change of scenery might be making me ill, I need to rest. Please forgive me, I would absolutely adore an in-depth tour later,” Sansa wasn’t surprised that that sounded so nice, even on the verge of collapsing she could not forget her manners. The last thing Sansa remembered before hitting the floor, was Allaya’s soundless reply, she say the girl’s mouth open and her eyebrows furrow, the concern practically painted on her face, but she could not hear anything. She just thought of how much easier it would be when Sandor arrived, she would feel safer then.

* * *

**Okay, so a few firsts in this chapter**

**First POV from Cersei and I dunno if I will do more of that, depends on how you guys think it went**

**First try at masturbation, did not do a very good job in my opinion, have to work on that**

**And, very proud of this one, but first OC, Allaya is an OC and she's not very complicated yet so tell me how you guys liked her (if u did)**

**Another chapter coming soon, thank you for reading and stay tuned!!**


	12. Chapter 12

She dreamt that she was a child again, in her old bed at Winterfell. She was around eight years old and she had come down with a terrible fever, her mother was sitting next to her on the bed as she tossed, turned and sweated. It was going to be a rough night, but her mother’s warm presence next to her alleviated all of the stress. Sansa could sleep peacefully with her mother near.

They had always been close, Sansa and her mother. Sansa had learned etiquette and poise from her mother, and had adopted her Catelyn's icy smile, she was also the only other Stark that practiced the religion of the Seven. Sansa had discovered at a very young age, that she was not cut out for the outdoors, she was a fragile child who was prone to inexplicable and irrational fears. She had been too afraid of the dark to sleep calmly through the night for the first nine years of her life. Sansa had never been able to feel at ease in the godswood, the weirwood trees haunted her days and plagued her nights. She could feel them judging her, and on one occasion she thought she saw them blink. Sansa had been a fretful, worried child, always questioning the behavior of others and over thinking decisions, she drove her impulsive siblings mad with her stalling and infinite list of inqueries.

Her mother had sheltered her, Catelyn loved her darling daughter, and wanted her to be protected from all of the unpleasantries this world harbored. She would often sing Sansa to sleep, tales of grandeur and magic, valiant knights and daring princes. Sansa had absorbed herself completely in her mother’s stories, something that would cause her much heartache later in life, when reality showed her the bitter truth to those foolish fairy tales.

But for right now, Sansa was enjoying her mother’s presence on the bed beside her, she couldn’t discern if it was a dream or reality. She would worry about that later, for right now she was content to hug the foreign pillows on this new bed. Everything was soft and smelled clean, like flowers, she stretched out and her toes searched for an edge of the bed, but it must have been immense, she could not find one. Sansa did brush against something though, the presence next to her was actually there, she could feel the slight dip in the bed due to their weight. Still half asleep she decided to ignore them, she wanted to continue dreaming that it was her mother but knew in her heart that her beloved mother would never comfort her again. It was a better reality in her head.

The person next to her would not tolerate being ignored though, Sansa could feel as they shifted their weight and leaned towards her. She clutched the pillows tighter and curled in on herself, fetal position seemed right to her in that moment. She felt the person halt above her, their aura  hovering. When they made no new movements she allowed herself to relax, she didn’t get comfortable but her tired mind needed to unwind and by the gods she would even if this person was intent on watching her.

Sansa fell asleep again, a deep calm slumber with no dreams, just black. She could still register every noise and movement on the bed next to her, but it didn’t bother her anymore. She slept on, her heat beats slowing to match the stranger’s breaths. She noticed that as she fell asleep that their breathing slowed and evened out, she guessed that they were falling asleep themselves. This situation would have terrified her if she was more awake; a stranger that was sitting on the bed next to her, presumably just watching her as she rested, for gods knew how long. It was frightening no doubt, but she found a sense of calm emanating from them. She chose sleep over worry. She could deal with whoever it was when she felt rested enough. Sansa felt confident that if the person wished her harm he or she would have hurt her long ago. Smiling to herself in the gloom, Sansa buried herself deeper in the blankets and within moments she was out cold, in the deepest sleep she had had in months. It was sublime.

* * *

 

She finally settled down, her breathing was slow and deep. She had squirmed around a few times, and had even kicked him once or twice, but she was finally, in all actuality, fast asleep. This was the calmest he had ever seen her, as his eyes adjusted to the blackness he could see her mouth open, a line of drool on her pillow. He made a note to bring that up later, how ‘unladylike’ it was to dribble in ones sleep. Oh how she would blush and attempt to save face. He had no doubt in his mind that she would resent his mentioning it, but it wasn’t like him to let things go. He was a dog that would  could hold onto anything he got his teeth into.

Sandor leaned back, being careful not to interrupt her sleep or touch her sprawled limbs. She had probably already guessed that he was there, but she hadn’t shown any opposition, he had originally sat there in hopes of scaring her, but she didn’t seem afraid in the slightest. So now, bored and annoyed he sat there out of stubbornness.

He looked around the room, a girl around Sansa’s age had shown it to him when he arrived, refusing to let him go through the front, the boisterous little thing had led him up stairs and down hallways unrelenting. He had tried scaring her too, but she had the gall to tell him, “Honey, I’ve been bought and sold by uglier men than you,”. She had even given him a sympathetic look, the impertinent little prostitute.

The room was very well furnished; Petyr had obviously given her the best of the best. The bed was slightly larger than Joffrey’s, Sandor couldn’t fathom it, where did Littelfinger obtain a bed larger than the ruling king’s? That still was not the crowning achievement, from what he had glimpsed there were mirrors everywhere, dressers and cupboards made of mahogany, Braavosi rushes of varying colors strewn across the floor, a purposefully disorganized look to the room. But what caught his eye was the closet on the far wall, open to the public , showing off expensive looking dresses and jewels, Petyr had spared no expense apparently. Sandor was also surprised by the large, stained glass window on the far wall, near the closet. He had noticed the balconies outside the building, and could only guess that this room had the most lavish one. It angered him how happy it would make Sansa, he knew what she liked and she would love this room and all its niceties, but it royally vexed him that Baelish was making his little bird happy.

This just wasn’t his day. He couldn’t scare a whore or the little bird, he didn’t really want to but he needed to feel frightening to feel comfortable. If he questioned his ability to fight or terrify than he would be lost.

He stretched his neck, immediately regretting how the audible crack seemed to reverberate around the room. Sansa made some small noise as she brought a pillow closer to her chest, he hadn’t meant to do that. Sandor of all people knew that she needed this rest, he had often fetched her early in the morning to find her awake and dressed, she never slept. Or never slept well. He pitied her, the gorgeous little bird, refused rest, she was forced to sing her songs too often. He looked down at the slight rise and fall of her body as she breathed, he sighed inwardly, she was even more radiant when she slept. Peaceful and beautiful. He wanted to hold her, but he knew that her polite fragile body deserved more than his thick scarred arms. He was nothing more than a body guard for her, and he would gladly kill or be killed for her, only to be reassured that she was safe.

Sansa’s happiness meant more to Sandor than life.

He found himself leaning towards her, he had the despairing urge to see her face, her pretty face caught deep in the clutches of peaceful sleep. The problem was the little bird had buried herself under a pile of brightly colored pillows and elaborately embroidered blankets. Sandor would have to search for her. It would be amusing if he wasn’t so impatient.

Tentatively leaning forward, he gripped the edge of a blanket nearest him, gently pulling back. She gave a slight noise of disagreement, but it was feeble and soft, so he ignored it and continued to ever so slightly pull back the blanket from her face. She sleepily tugged at it, but soon gave up in order to grasp a pillow tighter.

When he finally uncovered her face he was alarmed by how strongly it impacted him. He was frozen, struck to the core by longing, his bones felt cold and empty as he looked down at her; all the good things in this world personified by her sleeping face.

Hair obstructed his view, she was surrounded by a hallo of those Tully locks, it covered the entirety of her pillow and fell across her face in lazy waves. She was breathing through her mouth, her lips parting only slightly when she exhaled. For such a lady she looked so messy and unkept as she slept, but it didn’t bother Sandor at all, this was the real Sansa, not some frigid porcelain doll that said and acted exactly how she was told to.

He wanted to know everything about her, he already knew a majority of her likes and dislikes, but he wanted to know more. Why she acted like she did, what she wanted in life, who had taught her her manners, which brother was her favorite, what angered her and what her made her the saddest. He wanted to know what she thought, to be close to her, to be her shield.

More than anything, Sandor wanted to make her happy. He often made her smile but he always wanted to be there to see it. Her smile could shame flowers and the dawn, she held the sunset in her heart and the sunrise in her eyes. To him, this girl was his world. She would never love him the way he loved her, but just being this close was enough for him.

Despite all rational thought, Sandor reached over and lightly plucked a strand of hair from her face, he had seen men do this to their sweethearts, but this was the first time he had ever combed a woman’s hair behind her ear. It was a foreign yet soothing gesture. He felt odd. This was more sensitive than he had ever been. But when he took his hand away, Sansa frowned and made another small squeak of unhappiness. He didn’t know why, maybe it felt nice to her. He wondered who she thought he must be. But he complied with her weary wish and hesitantly took her hair between his fingers and brushed it back softly. He tried to be as gentle as he could, he had seen with his own eyes how easily she bruised, he never wanted her to hurt again. So he sat like that, brushing hair from her face until there were no more loose strands to comb back, so instead he ran his hand over her hair, starting at her hairline down to the back of her head. Even when she smiled again he persisted, his need for her smile was so great.

Hours seemed to pass like this, he grew accustomed to the feel of her skin and hair under his hand, yet his heart soared every time he touched her. He hated how weak she made him, but in this darkness he couldn’t feel his scars, only her happiness.  In this darkness her beauty made him feel beautiful too. Something that made her precious to him.

* * *

**okay i seriously love sandor i try to make him so complicated and tried to make some similarities between him and joff in this chapter, like the whole smile thing**

**this might not be the best chapter or writing but thank you guys so much for reading!! please comment!!**


	13. Chapter 13

Strange.  

 

She woke up, the room was dark, it had to be night still, but how long had she been sleeping?It seemed like hours, that peaceful dream of her mother,Catelyn’s fingers lacing through her hair. Sansa could remember all the different times her mother had done that, played with her hair to calm her down. When Arya had egged her into a fight or when her stitches came out crooked, or when she had night terrors.There were plenty of times in her life when Sansa had hoped to feel her mother’s comforting presence and words.But her mother was dead and no one cared enough about her to do that for her anymore.It was a bittersweet dream.Cruel.

 

But the strange thing was it felt so real, even now, she knew she was awake but she could still feel something, someone in the room with her.The manifestation in the room with her felt so real this time.This time. _This has happened before?_ It was confusing and frightening, but Sansa thought she’d experienced this feeling before.This sense of being aware of another being in the room.Resigned to ignore it, she convinced herself that it was just a dream, a psychotically real and vivid one.She knew that she would die one day, and while the thought of it scared her, she knew she would one day see her mother and family again, and if she was going to see them again tonight, so be it.At least she’d try to get some sleep first, she wouldn't give the thing in the room–if there was something there–the pleasure of seeing her scared.

 

–

 

Petyr had seen Sandor as he caressed and played with the older Stark girl’s hair.He had seen everything from her undressing to the Hound sitting on the foot of her bed.Petyr had heard her breathing slow and calm as he sat by her.He understood by Sandor did what he did, but he couldn’t understand why Sansa was so content with it.He often found himself wanting to touch the Stark girl, to feel her skin and run his fingers through her Tully hair, but he knew better than to think those advances would be wanted.But he had seen her calm under Sandor’s touch. Why?

 

He had false walls everywhere.No one knew about the ones on this level though.It was a fun game, to watch the girls compete with each other to see who got the prize of having a ‘private’ room.How peculiar each girl became when they thought truly no one could see them.How open and human they seemed.How vulnerable.  

 

A girl a few years ago, had been a heartless vixen, sabotaging the other girls in an attempt to have the coveted room on the fourth floor.When she had made it though, after months of groveling and staging accidents, she had surprised Petyr by crying herself to sleep every night.This woman wasn’t special, she wasn’t unique.She was like all the rest; superficial and shallow and sad.He had hoped to find a woman he could call his equal in her, but she just couldn’t match him.She had showed too much humanity and remorse for a person that had wasted so much time, effort, and potential.

 

Baelish had no doubt that Sansa was among those weak willed women, a girl who had been notorious for believing in valiant knights and dashing princes.Poor Sansa had no idea how cruel the world really was, she had been forced to experience Joffrey, king of malice and hated, but she knew nothing about the world.She would never survive this game, she was a just another pawn on the board.If he could convince the other players that she was a queen in her own right though, that would change things. Then maybe, just maybe, he could win a round or two.  

 

Everyone knew that the game of thrones was a game of queens.  

 

A battle set in stone centered around the matriarchs of each major house.There was Daenerys of house Targaryen, a girl born of fire and blood.A formidable young lady who’s life has been wrought with terrible sadness and fatalities.First her mother and siblings are murdered and her brother Rhaegar defeated on the Trident.Her own brother murdered by her husband’s people.Daenerys lost everything she touched, she lost family after family.But in this game, her growing empire overseas is a force to be reckoned with, her dragons alone could finish armies, but her growing number of Unsullied do not bode well for the Seven Kingdoms.With her eyes on Mereen and the Slaver’s bay though, she could be demolished, stuck between a rock and a hard place, so to speak.As the former masters plan revenge and the remaining cities gather armies.

 

Then there is Margaery of house Tyrell, still growing strong.A budding rose among a garden of weeds, she is perhaps the loveliest woman in all of Westeros.Her family is wealthy beyond compare, and her reputation for marrying royalty is an impressive feat.But her beauty can be dangerous, she has no real roots this far from Highgarden and with Cersei plotting her fall from grace, Margaery has a shaky foundation at most.She does have the ability to charm others to do her bidding, but how long will that last when other contenders are buying protection with gold.Margaery and Cersei are the foremost players, both adept at playing people, but where Margaery tries for demure and innocent, Cersei goes for cruel and merciless.

 

Cersei of house Lannister, the most obvious competitor, has done nothing to hide her lust for glory and gold.She is vindictive and would not hesitate to cut down families to get what she wants.She is, however rich and cunning, hated by the common folk.If there were to be an uprising, the Lannister family would be the first on the chopping block, all their guards paid for protection would turn.It would be the Sacking of King’s Landing repeated.

 

The last queen in the game is Sansa.The last remaining Stark after her brothers were all killed and her sister presumed dead.The Stark house has been a great and noble one for generations.They were among the first to lay claim to the land north of the Trident, and have held the title Warden of the North for many summers.Kings before even that.Sansa could rally the North, get families from the Fork to the Wall wanting another Stark as king.The North remembers, and they would not forget the betrayals and murders at Lannister hands.She is a stark but has the looks and personality of a Tully, she would have to be preened and primped before she could muster the men of the North.She has to be molded into a queen before she can capture their hearts.And Petyr is the only one that can do that, or so he told himself.

 

Petyr needed Catelyn’s daughter to be his ally if he was ever going to win.He planned on sneaking her off in the dead of night, now that she was here with him, his plan was that much easier.Joff had done him no favor, though.Sending The Hound had been a fool’s mission, it was obvious to any with eyes that Sandor Cleagane favored the girl’s attention.It was just a question of who he would be more loyal to; the young spoiled king who sent Sandor to run down butcher boys, or the young sweet girl who looked up to him as her savior, perhaps the only one that saw him as a true knight.

 

Petyr would have to find a way to separate them, to gauge how hesitant or enthusiastic the Hound would be in playing a part of his scheme.

 

Littlefinger had seen them earlier, how Sandor coddled her, and longed for her.How safe she felt when he was near.He could guess with a fair amount of certainty that Sandor would follow his lead if he believed it would help the Stark girl.

 

He knew he could get Sandor to comply with his demands, but it still hurt his pride, when he had taken up Sandor’s spot on Sansa’s bed after the Hound left.Where she had been calm and relaxed in Sandor’ presence, she had tossed and turned in Petyr’s.It was as if she could tell the difference between Sandor and a stranger.What was he doing that wasn’t good enough for her?

 

Petyr shook his head and followed the secret walls back to his own chambers.He couldn’t give it too much thought.She was a young girl and a foolish one at that, it wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t recognize he was her true savior.She would learn in time to respect him.

 

They always did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where to start.  
> Sorry for such a long hiatus, but I'm back and I'll try to write as much as I can this summer. I have two other stories going on (walking dead sorry). Please feel free to comment; with ideas, criticism, or anything in between.  
> Thanks again for reading and have a great day!


	14. Chapter 14

It wasmorning, the sun was shinning, birds were singing.His bird would be awake and with him soon.

 

_What a day.What a lovely day._

 

The only thing of putting about today was the fact that Sandor had to wait around this place, had to tolerate Baelish and his making eyes and ceaseless wit.Just being in Petyr’s establishment tested Sandor’s patience.He despised Littlefinger and anything that bore his seal.His gesture of wealth that this building was, Sandor couldn’t stand having another man’s riches rubbed in his face.He couldn’t help but stare at the building, but that didn’t stop him from hating it.His little bird might be fooled by its grandeur, but he was what lined the walls and kept the girls fed; Baelish and his lies.  

 

They had been summoned to a mid morning breakfast, under the guise of meeting the staff and women under Littlefinger’s employment.They were going to dine with the whores.No doubt this would prove to be interesting.  

 

Sandor had no trouble dealing with the underbelly of good society, and he was looking forward to Sansa’s awkward politeness.She often became quite frigid and tense when faced with scenarios she was not used to.She was taking her damn time getting dressed, stalling more like it.

 

But he waited, patiently outside her door.Their door really, as it had been deemed proper for him to sleep in the same room as the Stark girl.His cot wasn’t unpleasant, it was just a very obvious step down from the norm around this place.It was firm and squeaky and set up near the far wall, near the balcony.At least it gave him a good view of the room, not to mention Sansa.

 

He hadn’t been able to sleep that night though.After Sansa had fallen into a deep sleep, Sandor had perceived the acute sense of being watched.He had been so preoccupied with her sleeping figure to notice it, but when he stopped playing with her hair, and let himself relax, he had felt the uneasy feeling of being hunted.  

 

At a certain point in the night the unsettling sound of ice hitting a chalice rang out softly from somewhere.Sandor hadn’t been able to pin point where the sound originated from, it could have been in the next room or right next to him.The acoustics were subpar, the walls too thin, everything seemed to echo.  

 

Though he had no doubt about it.There had been someone in the room with them, where they were hiding, however, that was another question. 

 

He would have to find some excuse to search the room while everyone was at breakfast.It wouldn’t be too hard to convince the others to let him out of their sight, he found people often relished the chance to have him leave their presence, he seemed to unnerve people.  

 

_Go figure._

 

The little bird would be another matter, she was dependent on him being there, standing right behind her, to feel safe and secure.He puffed out his chest, his cheeks reddening, proud that he made her feel so protected, but indignant at the same time, that it had that much of an effect on him.

 

He expected the door to squeak softly open at any time.He couldn’t wait for her to peek her sleepy head out, dolled up for the days events.She always could be counted on to look her best, but Sandor had been around Sansa enough to know when the sleep was still in her eyes.She refused to let herself yawn around others, _Probably thought it unladylike,_ but she couldn’t help the drowsiness that clouded her bright eyes.

 

He stood there, shifting from foot to foot so to keep the standing numbness at bay, and yet, minute after minute ticked by.With not a peep from inside.He was sure that she was awake, she was always such an early bird.

 

Maybe he should check on her?But he was hesitant to disturb her, she was still a noble lady no matter how he tried to fool himself that they had some unique connection.He was her shield, but that didn’t mean that she would wish to be intruded.He could wait.He was adept at waiting, letting his mind relax until he didn’t have to think anymore.

 

_Let the nobles have their game of thrones, I have my waiting game, and in this I am the key player.I am the winner._

 

–

 

Sansa felt rested, for once in many moons she felt like she had truly slept.Like she was truly awake.It was a bittersweet feeling; she was loathe to admit that she had had the best sleep in a while in a whorehouse, and yet she was relieved beyond words, maybe this wouldn't be such a hellish experience.

 

She folded the blanket back over her head, she had fallen into the habit of sleeping under the covers, if she couldn’t see the people who wanted to hurt her, they couldn't see her.  

 

The room smelled of sandalwood and jasmine, something she had missed the night prior.It was refreshing, but not overbearing, with a subtle hint of fresh linen.And yet there was something else, something metallic and vile.Ignoring it she propped herself up on her elbows, hair cascading down her neck and shoulders.Some strands of hair were tucked behind her ear, she didn't pay it as much heed as the slight stain on her pillow; she’d slept with her mouth open again.  

 

Sansa sighed, she knew she had the bad habit of sleeping with her mouth open, or as Sandor called it, _Singing a song in her sleep._

 

Groaning she flipped the pillow over, she didn’t need Sandor’s ridicule this early in the morning.He would have teased her for sure for her unladylike mannerism, but what he didn’t know didn’t hurt him.Sansa felt deliciously mischievous as she hid the evidence, she knew that Sandor had a unique affection for her, but that had never stopped him from poking fun at her misery before, why should it now?

 

She squinted into the daylight that poured through her open balcony, the fresh air was welcome but the glare from the sun was not.Sansa stretched her legs, throwing back her arms and arching her back, letting out a yawn as her muscles warmed up.And yet there was a tightness in her abdomen.

 

She moved to sit up, but with a sharp pain in her stomach, laid back down.The cramp was strong, and her lower back felt sore, as if she had been bent over embroidery all day.

 

She recognized this pain, and the irritable feeling it brought on.

 

Cursing herself and her foolishness, Sansa edged to the side of the bed and swung her legs out, cringing at how viciously her lower body protested.Sansa lifted her nightgown, the shift she wore under was clinging to her body, sweat had plastered it down.  

 

“Fool,” She muttered under her breath.She should have known her moon’s blood was coming, she should have been more careful.

 

“Fool!” She whispered hotly, mentally berating herself for being an insipid little idiot.Groaning Sansa plopped her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands.  

 

_What’s Petyr going to think? I’m already costing him coin, in food and board, he’ll think of me as nothing more than a foolish girl.How am I to learn how to please others when I’m like this? You’re such a bother, such a stupid stupid girl!_

 

She hit her forehead with the palm of her hand, it was a grievous error on her part.She should have planned this endeavor around her moon’s blood. _Petyr will think less of you,_ a cruel voice told her, _You’re as useful to him as you are to Joffrey. Joffrey.Joffrey was right, you’re nothing more than a useless stupid girl.Can’t even help how useless you are._

 

Sansa knew it was irrational to get mad at herself for what her body was doing; it was a natural occurrence and it meant she was healthy, but it pained her to think of what the men would say.She knew what they’d say.Petyr would never dare hurt her person, physically or emotionally, but he would say cruel things about her to others, as all men in her life had done before.They would think less of her because she was so evidently now a woman.Cersei had tried to tell her how men thought, how they were vicious and mean and often thought of women as lesser humans, but had she listened? 

 

She had’t wanted her first impression to be like this.She hadn’t wanted any of this.It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! 

 

Sansa felt overwhelmed; ashamed at herself, disgusted with her body for betraying her, and uncomfortable as her lower back twitches and ached in pain. She could feel herself tearing up and was made to feel all the more terrible because of it.She dug the palm of her hand into her eyes until it hurt, she didn't want to cry anymore as here she was reverting back to the stupid child Joffrey always called her. Maybe he was right.

 

"Maybe I am just stupid," She knew no one could hear her but she wanted someone to come to her rescue. Wipe away her tears and comfort her, tell her she had worth and was smart and was going to make it.She wanted a hero from her songs, she knew she couldn't be Nymeria so she would settle for being Jonquil.She just needed a Florian to come and save her.

 

Sansa couldn't close her eyes tight enough to keep the tears from falling, they came unbidden and fell with abandon.She tried to swipe them away as fast as the came, but she was tired and in pain, and couldn't muster the energy.So she sat there. Hunched over, her hands limply falling over her knees, her hair hiding her face as she sobbed and sniffled.She knew her face would be a mess, red and puffy and covered in snot and tears but she didn't care.Let someone find her like this. Let them acknowledge her humanity. Her fragile sense of self.

 

_I dare them._

 

Not long after she had made her silent wish, came a knock on her door. Reluctant and soft, but a knock nonetheless.

 

"Sansa? You alright in there, little bird?" Of course it has to be Sandor. She never got any peace.

 

She wiped the snot off her face with the back of her hand, and tried to steady her voice. But it sounded husky and wet, "I'm fine, Ser. I apologize. I'll be out in a second,".

 

"Sansa may I enter?"

 

Panicked Sansa turned her back to the door, fluffed her pillow and fell on her side to feign having just woken up.

 

Sandor didn't wait for an answer, he turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open. He had heard a quiet cry, and while she had done her fair share of crying in the castle, he was worried as to what might troubling her here.She had her back to him, her legs drawn up to her chest and her arms hugging her body. She looked to all the world a small frightened child. His desire to hold her was only rivaled by his anger towards whatever had caused her such duress.

 

He walked up to her, making sure she could hear him coming.He reached out and pulled the sheet off her playfully, "C'mon Little Bird, the great Lord Littlefinger has requested our presence to break our fast. And I know he didn't do it just to see my ugly mug,".

 

He grinned down at her, hoping she'd laugh or at the very least look at him. But all she did was sigh, her shoulders relaxed and he could feel the tension melt off of her.Yet she did not utter a word.  

 

“Sansa?”He was getting animus seeing her like this. Was she ok? Had he done anything to offend or hurt her?

 

“Don’t, please…just don’t,”She sounded so hurt, so emotionally unfeeling.He couldn't tell what was more appalling to him, her utter sense of apathy or the tears she couldn’t be bothered to try and hide.It made him uncomfortable to see her crying so easily and out in the open.Usually she would wipe them away, loathe to let others see her weakness.There was a power behind letting others see your pain so obviously.Still, he wished she would at least make an attempt to appear abashed about this powerful show of vunerability, if only for others to think her stronger.

 

“Sansa, talk to me, who did this? I’ll kill ‘em,”He could hear the edge creeping into his voice, the panicky sense of helplessness.He was at a loss for words that would calm her.Quite the opposite though, she seemed almost too calm, he needed to do or say something that would jolt her back to her normal self.

 

So he adopted a huskier, angrier tone with her.  

 

“You fool, get up, I can solve your problem once you are washed and ready for Littlefinger’s brunch, I swear it,”

 

Sansa could feel her heart hardening, it wasn’t Sandor’s fault per se, but he was just like all the rest; ignorant and arrogant, and afraid to see women at their weakest because it reminded him that they were human.She couldn’t help but laugh, a sharp dry thing that clawed its way up her throat, bringing more tears to her eyes.

 

_He would never understand._

 

And just as her heart had grown cold to the idea of him, the worry in Sandor’s voice brought her back down, warmed her from the cockles of her heart.But she was still unwilling to turn and face him, she gathered her nightgown in her hand and balled her fist.Pulling her legs closer to her chest, in an attempt to force the wandering pieces of her psyche to come back together.She would fix herself, she had to, it was expected of her.  

 

She had always been prone to violent mood swings and aggressions during her monthly bleeding, it was an adverse side affect that she dreaded each and every time.It drove people away and made them resent her.But they didn’t understand, no one did.Jeyne had, but that seemed like someone else’s life, seemed so long ago.  

 

Sansa tuned out Sandor’s increasingly urgent pleas, some angry some pitiful and lost, and focused with her mind’s eye on the first time she had learned about a woman’s bleeding.Her mother had been advised by Septa Mordane to tell her and Arya about what being a woman meant before they departed for King’s Landing.  

 

Sansa could still remember the much anticipated day, how she fretted over her clothes, trying to look demure and innocent and naive.She didn’t want to disappoint her lady mother, but Jeyne Poole had already told her all about the monthly bleedings, seeing as she had gotten hers early.

 

Sansa couldn’t exactly picture the moment, or the solemn words her mother and the Septa had shared with her, but she could remember the feeling of that time, the feeling of being in a cool pool, surrounded by people who loved her and who she loved with abandon.How Arya had held her hand when their lady mother broached the subject of bleeding, Sansa knew that Arya couldn’t have possibly been scared, tha is was probably a fleeting moment of shared excitement.A scant second in which both sisters acknowledged each other and remembered that they were blood of their blood, that their lives would forever be intertwined.  

 

Sansa couldn’t help but cry anew over that lost moment of long forgotten unhindered love.She knew she could have been a better sister to Arya, that she could have tried harder to know, to really know her sister.But she hadn’t.She hadn’t allowed herself to show love for her younger sister because she couldn’t bring herself to accept her younger sister.Sansa had always wanted a younger sister that would dote on her and see her as a teacher, but Arya had never been that.Had never looked up to her.Had never needed her advice or help.Arya was independent where Sansa required constant attention and was dependent on the words of others.Sansa knew that she had resented her sister’s ability to be alone and be her own person, she knew that, she couldn’t fool herself into thinking it was anything else but jealous anger.That’s what made her so sad.  

 

She and failed Arya.She had failed her mother.She had killed her father.And she even found it in her to fail Joffrey and Cersei and Sandor.And now Petyr! 

 

She hid her face between the pillows, and crossed her arms above her head.And sobbed, holding nothing back, she didn’t care that Sandor was there to be witness to her meltdown.She didn’t care about what he might be thinking or what he might be feeling towards her.In that moment she was acutely aware of how feeble she was.How tenuous her mind and body seemed.Disgustingly enough, she could feel as she bled, slowly, a drip at a time.Slowly spreading across her inner thighs and shift, staining her skin as red as death.She sobbed over her life, and her cowardice, her inability to end this hell.She wept for her family, letting the sadness flood her as she knew once it was gone she would be even stronger.She would be stronger for them.She would be stronger for herself.  

 

They hadn’t been able to grow old and die in peace, but if she had learned anything during this war, and all the turmoil it wrought was that she was a Stark.She was a wolf.She would learn to cope, she would learn how to live again.She would thrive, not for anyone else, but for herself.  

 

She could feel her heart rate slowing, her mind relaxing as she let the rage and sorrow inside her out.Her fire had extinguished itself, and she felt the back of her throat burning.She felt Sandor’s body sitting near hers.She had been too preoccupied with her own mental warfare to notice him sit down, or to feel anger that he sat without permission.

 

She felt fingers on her hair.She felt the soft caress of her mother from the other night.Only now she realized it had to have been Sandor.  

 

Her poor misshapen friend.Her giant.Her shield.She cried out softly, sniffling slightly, but for joy.  

 

She knew now that she wasn’t alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't quite go as long in this chapter as I wanted to, but hope you guys enjoy.


	15. Chapter 15

Petyr sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting comfortably on either side of his empty plate, his fingers laced together in front of his mouth. His eyes were smiling but his lips were twisted into a deep frown, though he hid that fact from the world. He had dressed in his usual finery; deep purple, velvet doublet over an evergreen tunic made of the softest fabric money could buy. A Stark silver cape hanging from his shoulders clasped with twin golden mockingbirds securing the cape to the doublet. It would be a sweltering summer day, but he felt clammy and cold under his layers of fabric. His anger made his body so cold, his anger was a icy one. For all the world he looked the part of a carefree man. His eyes betrayed nothing that went on behind them.

 

His laughing grey-green eyes were bright this morning. He had not slept a wink last night, however. It was not the first time he had stayed up an entire night, and it surely would not be the last.

 

After tiptoeing into Sansa’s chambers when The Hound left his post to relieve himself, Petyr had sat at her bed. But having felt nothing but contempt for Sandor in that moment alone with Sansa, he had left almost immediately. He had expected to feel a twinge of fatherly, or even immoral, affection towards the sleeping girl, but all he could think of in that moment alone with her was his growing animosity towards the Clegane. And so he had stayed up all night, until the light of dawn, devising scheme after scheme, in the hopes of finding one that would on one hand, secure his hold on the Stark name via Sansa and on the other, ensure The Hound’s utter humiliation and defeat.

 

However much he disliked the larger man, he loved having competition, although he doubted Sandor would be much of an opponent. Not like how Varys was at least.

 

On the battlefield, Petyr knew he did not stand a chance against Sandor, but here in the realm of politics and subtle deceit, he was confident in his ability to outsmart that brutish man. All around him in King’s Landing, were thieves and liars and murderers, and he was among the best of each circle.

 

Bringing himself back to the real world, he perked up and looked over his hands at the familiar faces around his table.

 

All around his were his whores, his little troupe of tramps. He sat at the end of the table, at the head. Which was his place, the top of the proverbial food chain in here.

 

His domain was one in which lecherous activity brought bread to the table. His kin were urchins and cut throats, monsters parading as people, disguised in finery.

 

He closed his eyes and sighed softly letting his hands lean against his lips. **_She is taking too long,_** he thought. And that great big oaf was up there. Knowing what he knew, and seeing what he had seen, Petyr was suspicious of their relationship. Or at the very least he was suspicious of Sandor’s intent and to the extent Sandor would go for the girl.

 

It was common belief in this establishment that the false walls could only be used to hear the happenings in different rooms, that there was no way to see into the rooms, but what Petyr kept hidden from all, was the fact that he had had peepholes put in place.   Small slits in the wall that were covered with mesh. He hid these holes behind light tapestries–which although did not offer the best view, as every shape was blurred–gave him decent enough views to be able to see what happened. Albiet he saw everything as colorless blobs and blurs.

 

And he had seen Sandor’s shape hovering mere inches above Sansa’s. He had seen the man caress his guest lovingly. His guest, his woman, his to keep and cherish. And yet another man dare lay a finger on her.

 

He laughed a little to himself, having caught his thoughts in a jealous spiral. He was surprised at how Sansa’s presence had already affected him. He was not prone to jealous tendencies, but he could guess that the girl made every man she came in contact with want to claim her as his. He could only imagine the anguish Joffrey must be feeling, the longing that Sandor felt, the dark desires he himself would have if he let his feelings go unchecked. He would have to tread carefully or this need to claim ownership would be his downfall. He wondered just how many have already fallen victim to the Stark girl’s charm. He wondered if she even knew she had that power over people.

 

He could hear the growling of stomachs over the soft chatter around him. He had had the cook make a buffet style breakfast, with meat and fruit aplenty. He had no way of knowing what Sansa would wish to eat today, so he had all of her favorites prepared. A stupid amount of lemon cakes were bought and baked and awaited her. Chilled Arbor gold waited in clay jugs on the table. Iced honeyed milk sat growing warmer, the ice melting. His own mug of hot mulled wine was left untouched, the spicy aroma of cloves and nutmeg was enticing, but he was adamant about saving face. He would make toast with Sansa and break fast with her with an empty belly and a full glass. The women had their plates in front of them with their drinks of choice, but they waited, hungry but silent, knowing it better to not complain. They were all waiting. He was waiting. And waiting.

 

He was growing impatient. As a general rule, when he dined with his women all were expected to show, for as long as they wished but they were all required to bid him a hello. And none were allowed to eat until every member of his assembly had shown their face. He was not going to let the Stark girl disobey his rules. True enough, she did not explicitly know the rules–yet–but he had assumed by her reputation, that she would be polite enough to come down and dine when called upon.

 

Petyr leaned back in his chair, the front two legs coming off the ground and exhaled heavily. To the girls seated at the table he gave them a wry smile and threw up his hands in a lazy, “what can you do” motion. To Allaya who leaned against the table’s far end he snapped his fingers and pointed upwards, hoping she would catch his drift.  With a wink she put down the cup she had been nursing and sauntered away.

 

He never had to do the work that needed to be done. He could have gone and fetched the girl himself, but what kind of message would that have sent? Here he ruled, and although in the real world he held a scant among of actual power, here he could at least pretend to be a king in a keep.

 

And a king he would be.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Sansa registered that it was Sandor who was combing back her hair, but she refused to let it affect her. She refused to understand what it really meant. She refused to acknowledge his situation, or his feelings. If she was going to play her cards right and wind up on top she had to ignore all feelings except her own. She had to do what was right for her and her alone: she couldn’t afford to lose someone else.

 

And then it hit her, she was afraid of losing him. She was terrified what might happen to him if he did anything to protect her. Sansa had known first hand what it felt like to be punished by the Lannister’s, but she couldn’t even imagine what rage Joffrey would rain down on Sandor if the king knew his servant’s feelings. She could not, would not, let anyone else be harmed for her sake. She could not have anyone else’s blood on her hands.

 

So she opened her eyes, the salt from her sobs dry on her face, the snot still falling from her nose, and she took a deep breath. She knew she would have to deter him from trying to get closer, to try and convince him that she wasn’t worth the grief. But that would mean hurting the man who cared about her, and she didn’t know if she was emotionally ready for that. But she knew what to do, and how to accomplish her goal. She knew what would hurt him the most. She knew him, and she knew how to break him.

 

Sansa shut her eyes tightly and let out an anguished cry: a primitive keen full of resentment and frustration, loud and angry. She’d never felt this lost, and as his hand stopped on her scalp and moved to her forehead, presumably to feel her temperature, the cry got louder and more strained. Now she was just shouting, not even a sob anymore, but the scream of an animal that knows to survive it must first die inside. She screamed the sound of the lone wolf, one that was forced to reject its pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well shit lol its been about a year since i last updated  
> im sorry guys  
> but i hope you guys will forgive me and continue reading  
> more to come i promise  
> i appreciate each and every comment kudo and visit   
> you all mean the world to me thank you


	16. Chapter 16

  
Little bird.

Her song was something awful, it cut him deep to his core, steel against his heart. Sansa's keening hurt his ears, and he caught himself wanting to shake her, glancing at the door in fear. What if someone heard? He knew it didn't matter what people thought of him; he was a nobody. He was no one. But Sansa, she was a highborn lady. She wasn't entitled to emotions, she had all the rights and privileges in the world but when it came to the ability to feel, she had nothing. Feelings were for the weak, emotions were for the everyday. Those of noble birth were denied the luxury of feeling. That was one thing they, she, couldn't afford.

Besides he might not care what Littlefinger thought of him, but Sandor knew Sansa's life was in that mans hands. She had to keep up appearances. In short; he was afraid for her reputation, for her.

He hardly knew what to do. He had never been given the chance to learn tenderness, either for himself or for others. All he could do was repeat what he had seen lovers do, what he had heard mother’s do for their children. He had no real knowledge of those things.

 

His hand on her forehead, the back of his hand felt nothing abnormal. She was warm, sweaty and pale, but not enough to be worrisome. He had no fucking idea what was wrong with her, and that scared him more than anything. A man cannot kill the foe he does not know.

How can a dog serve its master if it has no idea what it's master desires.

"Little bird?" he whispered, leaning over her cautiously. She was surprising him constantly and he couldn't help but be wary; he hated surprises.

 

Careful to keep his dirty hair out of her pretty, clean face he scooted closer, and peered down at her. Her eyes were open half hidden by orange strands, he could see tear stains pink and glistening on her pale cheeks. Snot both dried and liquid all over her nose and top lip. Her lips were set in a straight line, close and tight. Her lower lip, raw and red from where she has chewed at it. But her eyes were what caught his attention; they were glassy puffy and red but they were ghostly. She was just staring into nothing, the light behind her eyes a dull gleam. He had seen the same stare on corpses.

"Little bird." he implored. "Get up. Hurry up now, girl, no more of this. Get up!"

Planting his hand on her shoulder and digging his other hand under her he lifted her into a sitting position. Only now did she struggle. Not her feeble attempts for show but she really struggled, twisting and turning and groaning at him trying to squirm away and out of his grasp. She even dug her nails in a little. But he had had worse, and her struggles against him only meant that she rejected his touch, something he had been hoping she would do, for it meant she was fine.

 

He hated having to hold her when she so desperately wanted to get away from him, but it was the only thing he knew how to do; hold people still.

"Stop this! Sansa, stop it, stop this now!" his voice low but wracked with a firm tenderness. It was the first time he had called her by her name in such a gentle way, it made her want to scream herself raw and bloody.

Emphasizing every word with a shake he put his face inches in front of hers, he told her again, "Stop this Sansa! Now!". More pleading then demanding, the feelings naked and laid bare before her. If she didn't know he was worried before, she had to know now hearing how scared he was.

Under his breath Sansa was sure she had heard him beg her, "Please". His voice so heartbroken and desperate the breaking of her heart was audible to her ears. Why was he doing this to her?

 

She wrenched her face away but he only followed her, putting his carred miserable excuse for a face directly in her line of sight. She hated him. How dare he be so forward and open with her! How dare he know how she needed him. She wanted to scream, “I don’t want to look at your face anymore!”, but she feared he would take it the wrong way. She didn’t want to look at him because she needed him so much, and she knew how she would have to hurt him. And she couldn’t bear to see his sincerity anymore. But he would take it as a slight against himself, and she promised herself that although she had to hurt him to save him, she would never purposefully hurt him in regards to his face; too many people had done that to him already, she was loathe to become one of those people.

Only then did she look at him, and really look at him. Not through him like he was a ghost, but she looked at him, her eyes flickering over his face faster than he could keep track with his. She was searching his face for signs of deception he figured, and it hurt him more than he would have admitted that something so beautiful and innocent could doubt someone's sincerity so much. She had been through so much, too much. Sansa saw the pity and genuine fear in his eyes and she felt her face collapse, like a child she wept again. She had been trying to memorize his face, every twisted burned, scarred lump of it, as if it was the first or last time she would see it. She cried not for herself, but because of what she would have to do to this man. This man who looked at her like a parent would their child if their young died before them. He looked at her as if she was dying ad taking a piece of him with her.

As each sob wracked through small her body her shoulders rose and fell but he held her up. He was afraid he had hurt her when he shook her but he couldn't–didn't–want to let go. Her needs, however, were more important.

 

So releasing one hand he snaked his free arm behind her back and half picking her up, half shuffling her bony body, he pulled her towards him so that her legs hung off the bed and she was in what resembled a seated position. They were shoulder to shoulder both of their legs hanging off the edge of the bed, the sheets everywhere at this point, strewn across her bed and sliding into the floor. It was the closest he had ever been to her, their thighs touching, one arm holding tight to her shoulder the other sprawled across her back.

 

Suddenly anxious and hot, he released his grip on her shoulder he pulled his arms away from her and stood up.

Peering down at this sorrowful girl he felt so many things, too many things: longing, affection, fear, anxiety, and a need to whisper insipid things like, “it’s going to be alright”.

 

His heart rate was up and his head hurt. Sandor’s face was scrunched up in a ugly frown: he simply had no idea what to do. Nothing he could do would be enough to soothe her. He had no pretty words to tell her everything was going to be ok. Nothing was going to be ok and he saw no point in lying to her. And he dare not touch her anymore than he already had. She wasn't in the right mind or she would have rebuked his gestures more. The fact that she had permitted him to touch her in the first place should have been a clue that something was amiss.

Sansa was settling down now, without his warmth next to or touching her, she felt less anchored. She rubbed at her face with her hands, sniffling.

 

Her voice cracked as she asked him, "Please don't look at me". Her soft song brought him back to reality, she was embarrassed, that was better than anything he could have asked for, it meant she was okay. He exhaled a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in, and had to fight a nervous chuckle.

Sandor visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping and his face returning to his normal scowl.

"Now you don't want me to look at you? Eh, are you embarrassed, little bird? You thought I wouldn't notice the drool on the pillow did you?" he leaned against the bed post, afraid to get too close to her, her head hung in shame hidden by her hair, he could guess Sansa's face would be red for quite sometime. He hoped Littlefinger and his bunch wouldn't be waiting.

 

“Little bird singing her songs in her sleep,” Sandor said, hoping the familiar line would brighten her spirits.

She chuckled at that, of course he had seen it in all that mess. Of course after being an eye witness to her breakdown the first thing he did was tease her. Despite herself, his little quip did help. But Sansa wasn’t about to let him know that.

 

She drew a hand across her eyes and laughed again, she was going to retort when a sneeze caught them both by surprise.

They both whipped their heads around towards the door where the sound emanated from. Sansa's eyes wide in fear, she recoiled from the edge of the bed. Sandor had his hand on his sword in an instant, stepping in front of the bed automatically at Sansa's defense.

"W-whos there?" Sansa's voice trembled despite her attempt at bravado.

A slim hand waved to them from behind the door.

"Aye take it easy now! It's just me. It's just Allaya!" Sandor relaxed though his hand remained on the hilt of his sword.

"What business do you have, girl?" his voice steely. He knew what this meant, and a quick glance over his should at Sansa confirmed that she too had realized what Allaya's presence meant.

Baelish was growing impatient and the youn whore had heard something if not everything, and soon Littlefinger would know of Sansa's evident meltdown and heavens knew what he would do with that information. Sandor had no way of knowing how much the girl had heard or even seen, he had been too preoccupied with Sansa, to even notice her there. It was foolish of him. It was foolish of Sansa. He cursed himself, mentally kicking himself, he had slacked his duties and now this young whore, her head peeking out from behind the door at them, could spell trouble for them. For weakness shown, is death known.


	17. Chapter 17

 

Allaya slowly stepped into Sansa's room, her hands held above her head in the hopes to show she was no threat. She wore a simple cotton shift loose and with no sleeves, the homespun material seemed a higher quality than Sansa would have expected. It was a simple dress, obviously worth more than the average whore's attire, but it was a very average piece of clothing. Not as flashy as the type of clothing her employer wore.

The girl still had, as always, a lazy smile playing on her lips and yet her green eyes rang true with sincerity. Sansa couldn't be sure Allaya had been spying with malicious intent, but the threat to her security still hung in the air.

She couldn't be too sure there even was any threat at all, but after her hellish experiences at the Red Keep-and in King's Landing in general–she couldn't be too careful. Sansa had no real knowledge of Petyr, who he was as a person or how he worked, but if she could guess by the company he kept–Varys and Tyrion Lannister–he was as clever as they came. And if he decided that her wellbeing didn't suit his plans in the Game, she had no doubt he was capable of horrible things.

She had to maintain the illusion of usefulness.

Sansa would have to try to persuade and remind him that with her on his side, Littlefinger could achieve great wealth, property and power. As she hoped all of her allies would get, with a fleeting glance at The Hound's back. As she hoped, for everyone's sake, was true.

With her head still bowed, Allaya darted her eyes up, at Sansa. "Forgive me Lady Stark, I meant no harm."

With another glance but aimed at Sandor, she added, "And my sincerest apologies to you too, Ser Hound,"

"I'm no Ser, girl" he mumbled halfheartedly, his voice its usual hoarseness. He lifted the corner of his top lip into a sneer, not a mean one per se, but a required one. A lame excuse at baring his teeth to her, but his heart wasn't behind his actions.

He stood with his back to Sansa between her and the door, his back straight as an arrow and his hand lingering at the sword on his hip. Sansa could see the tension in his shoulders and neck. He might not believe this girl sought to bring them harm, but Sansa knew Sandor would cut her down in an instant if he had to. If he got any inkling that she was in danger, Sansa knew Sandor was very capable of killing on her behalf, and the last thing she needed was some more innocent blood on her conscience. Sandor would have to bear the blood on his hands, the heavens knew there was enough of that already. She had been deathly afraid of him when they met, and as much as she hated to admit it she still lived in fear, flinching at his anger.

Yet despite of his violent nature, she couldn't help feeling safe in his vicinity.

Behind his brother, Gregor, The Hound was the most dangerous man and fighter in Westeros. Sansa knew this and hoped she had enough wit and courage to use his reputation to their mutual benefit.

Sansa knew Sandor was a ruthless opponent in battle, she had seen him fight, his technique slacking yet the power behind his sword was a force to be reckoned with. Sansa could find solace in the fact that it would take ten men to bring him down. Sandor might be a false knight who's disdain for formalities irked her, but he was her only shield.

She lifted herself off her bed, resigned to accept the fact of how her face looked. She had enough common sense to know that hiding now was futile, so she strode over to Allaya's bowed frame. Laying a hand on the other girl's petite shoulder, she squeezed tentatively, making sure her eyes remained soft and gentle.

"My dear friend, fear not. I understand your hesitance, there is no easy answer when dealing with another's troubles. I hardly know the pleasantries myself," Sansa let her eyes fall to the floor and gently bit her lower lip, hoping to appear demure and apologetic.

It worked.

Allaya jerked under Sansa's hand, curtsying deep for the Stark girl. "My Lady," Allaya said.

"I apologize again Lady Stark, I did hear you and yet I hesitated to enter," Sansa took her hands off the younger girl and nodded. Quite frankly Sansa would have done the same if their roles were reversed.

Turning to Sandor, Sansa said, "Ser, would you please excuse us a minute,"

Holding up a hand before The Hound could rebuke her 'Ser', she spoke again, her voice slow as if her brain and mouth wanted different things, "Go and inform Lord Baelish of my grievances, tell him I hope he can forgive my absence,"

Sandor opened his mouth to voice his complaints, but Sansa had already turned her attention back to Allaya. He couldn't know for sure if she was actually alright, but the ordeal–though experienced as a bystander–had drained him emotionally.

The burned corner of his mouth twitched and twitched, Sansa had her head bent to the slut's ear their voices hushed as they conspired. The Hound sighed, it was so early in the morning and yet he was so weary.

"Aye, little bird, but do not get used to ordering me about. I take orders from the King" The Hound rasped.

If he could do nothing more to help Sansa herself, he would find a way to be of use someplace else. His emotions were high and all over the place, which confused him, which in turn made him irritable. And although he did not exactly relish the thought of seeing and interacting with Littlefinger alone, it had to be done. Sandor didn't have a way with words the way that the little bird did-nor did he knowthe necessary pleasantries or care to learn them–but he didn't intend on inflating Littlefinger's ego any further. He would be straight to the point and blunt as was his way.

He had shown weakness to the little bird, he had allowed Allaya to see it, and he left the room feeling conflicted. The Hound wanted Sansa to have her innocent life full of song but he knew she would need to be stronger. The Hound both resented and yearned for her naivety, but if he could not have that youthful innocence himself, he would take it from her. For her own sake, he reasoned, as tough love was the way of their world.

Sandor left with the unmistakable need to compensate. He would take his frustration out on the fancy man who owned this beautiful place and all of these beautiful women.

* * *

* * *

 

After Sandor had left, to presumably relay her condolences to Lord Baelish, Sansa turned once more to Allaya. Having quickly informed the girl of her moon blood in a hushed and frantic whisper before Sandor left, Sansa closed her door. She found it easy to be alone with Allaya, the girl was practically her own age, and was deceptively easy on the eyes. She did not trust her but she could care less about the danger this girl could possibly pose. Time was of the essence and she was too tired to be cautious and polite.

Locking the door, Sansa turned on her heel and strode to the open wardrobe, something she had missed the night before. With her hand on a dress Sansa stopped a sudden realization hitting her like a mailed fist; she had fallen ill from fatigue early last evening and had slept through the night, meaning she had missed supper with Lord Baelish and the other women. Her first impression had been sloppy and stupid, and now she was late to break her fast with him.

"No..." her whisper came out low and frantic. This morning had a greater importance than she had realized. Kicking herself she rubbed her temple and shut her eyes, she would have to come up with some way to make up for lost time.

Turning on her heel Sansa addressed Allaya, "If you would be so kind as to fetch me a rag, I can clean and dress myself,"

Allaya, still by the door, scratched er head skeptical. "Aye, milady I can do that...but what would you be wanting me to do about your shift and sheets?"

"Immediately after we break our fast I can assist clean everything, and I would be forever grateful for your help then," she stopped, fingering the hem of her shift, "For now though, Allaya, I need your help to become presentable quickly"

Sansa plucked a dress from the wardrobe and pulled her night garments off, under things and all. She felt her cheeks and ears burn with shame and modesty, but Sansa also knew that in the line of work Allaya was in, hers wouldn't be the first naked body the other girl saw.

Sansa had always been a shy child, her mother and septa had taught her to value the Maiden's purity and the Mother's wisdom. And she usually did try to maintain an air of dignity. She was a highborn lady and she was virgin pure, as were all the damsels in the songs. Before she would have asked or even ordered Allaya to leave her, or to help her undress, but her time in the Red Keep had soured her attitude towards humility.

Sansa could not give a whit in this moment.

Sansa could not even trouble herself over what Allaya must have thought of her, she only needed Petyr and Sandor to think kindly of her. They were pawns in her game of survival, and as far as she could see, Allaya held no power to help her escape.

The brief taste of freedom–or whatever one would call moving from one cage to another–had given Sansa hope. What a dangerous thing that hope could be.

Allaya moved behind Sansa as she dressed, the girl's feet barely audible on the Bravossi rushes. As Sansa was pulling a light blue dress over her head she heard Allaya move to her right.

"For you, Lady Stark,"

Sansa brushed the hair from her face and took the moonblood rag from Allaya with a murmured, "Thank you"

Now all she had to do was comb her unruly hair back in a flattering manner and she would be ready to face Lord Baelish.

Giddy and light headed from nerves and hope, Sansa said a silent prayer to the Stranger in her head. She prayed the faceless and ominous god would help her face her fears.

* * *

 

Petyr could hear heavy footfalls coming closer to the common room. At this point, almost a half hour past the agreed upon time, the women were growing restless, downing glass after glass of drink.

He sat at the head of the table, his place, with his legs crossed at the ankle and arms splayed across the armrests of his chair. He oozed an air of tranquility, a cup of honeyed wine cooling in his hand. The overpowering aroma of nutmeg and cloves, once alluring, was starting to smart his eyes.

The foot steps were approaching and he knew they weren't Sansa's or Allaya, which despite himself, disappointed him.

Petyr wasn't remotely angered at this point, he had calmed himself enough to register this as an advantage for him; as far as Littlefinger knew, Sansa was a slave to etiquette, so using a fair amount of common sense he could guess that she would try to make amends. The more effort she put into appeasing him, the better the situation would be.

Lord Baelish was no lecher, just a man too clever for his own good. He sought challenge after challenge, only reveling in winning. He took this approach to all aspects of his life; politically and economically he was always the victor. Romantically and sexually, he desired women who were smarter than he was, though fully submerged in the ocean of his ego those were hard to find. Baelish wanted a woman as cunning as he was, someone who could play his little games. He wanted someone beautiful, cold hearted and calculating.

Lord Baelish was, however, human: despite his expectations his need for companionship often led him to settle, forcing him to forgo one or both of his standards.

He assumed that with Sansa he would have to be satisfied with her beauty, he did not expect her to be shrewd enough for him. Not meaning any offense of course, he just thought of himself as a tier higher than everyone else in regards to intellect. And he did have great faith in her beauty, he had met her at the Hand's tournament and it had been lust at first sight. She was the spitting image of her mother but had her father's noble air.

Not surprisingly, this way of living–these high expectations, intensely lonely feelings and inflated sense of self–often left Littlefinger feeling despondent. Like most victors who cannot find any opponent worthy of their time; Littlefinger was a bored man.

His boredom knew no bounds.

**_This could prove entertaining_** , he thought as a familiar, hulking form stomped into the room.

Littlefinger leaned forward saluting The Hound with his cup, "Ser Sandor, I thought I heard you dancing down these halls,". Baelish's smirk and veiled taunts would have bothered Sandor any other moment, but having smelled the food and now seeing it laid out before him he felt his stomach for the first time that morning. Empty.

Petyr continued, determine to rile The Hound up, satisfied to sit back and poke the bear, "Do dogs usually eat before their masters?"

Sandor stalked to the end of the table and slammed his hands down, gripping the wood until the white of his knuckles stood out. He paid no heed to the shuffling of whores on either side of him, as the women politely sidled away from him. He reached a leather clad arm over the plates awaiting the little dove and grabbed the leg off of a roast chicken. The skin cracking as the bone was torn from the body, the meat juicy and plump and pillowy in his fist.

"I've always preferred chicken," the Hound grunted, his voice stone against metal, as harsh and cold as ice. He tore a chunk of meat of the leg in his hand and retreated to a chair by the doorway, plopping into it gracefully, content to continue making eye contact with Littlefinger's smug little face as he devoured the bird. As he waited for his little bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love me I live for comments


	18. Chapter 18

With grease running down his chin, Sandor sat and ate and stared. He kept his gaze soft and lingering as if he wasn't really seeing the people around him. But he was memorizing each and every face here. He had that uncanny ability to be both menacing and unassuming. If not for his size, one could overlook his presence. 

His eyes roamed over every person in this room, he counted the women but made it a point to avoid their eyes. He had dealt with whores before, the best and the worst of them knew what to say to make him forget who and what he really was. But the moment they saw the ruin of his face in good light, every single one of them would cave in. His face reminded them of what they were; human.

Fragile.

Flammable.

And the look in their eyes when they saw him reminded him of what he truly was; a dog. Sandor was a rabid dog that needed to be put out of its misery before he corrupted other people, other innocent lives.

So his eyes travelled every bump and curve of each face, freckled and pale and tan and dark. He briefly registered hair and eyes and bodies, sniffing out the fakes and the fools. The Hound would have been seeking out friend or foe in these women’s faces, but he knew better than to assume any could be relied upon to be friend. He did not trust any of them, and their master the least of all.

He saved Littlefinger for last.

His mouth full of chicken, he pointed at Baelish with the leg in his hand, "I've been meaning to ask you, _my lord_ ," his voice dripping with mock courtesy, "How does a small man on the small counsel have time to manage a bunch of whores and control the Crown's coin?" Still chewing, his mouth open, Sandor sneered.  “Seems to me you have too much time on your hands little man. What is your secret Littlefinger,”

"My dear Hound, you overestimate me, I am just a simple vassal of the King…doing as he sees fit.  We are not that unlike, you and I...we want the same things," Littlefinger answered, his eyes laughing.

 

“We’ll see if that’s true,” The Hound rasped. Sandor could only imagine what Littlefinger could possibly want. Imagining it left a sour taste in his mouth. The chicken tasted rotten.

The Hound scrunched up his face and swallowed the last bite of meat, his appetite now ruined. Sandor didn’t want to imagine the kinds of twisted things the older man would want to do to his little bir–to Sansa. He for one knew first hand what vile men would like to do to girls like her, it was a wonder she had survived this long. More of a blessing– _maybe the work of her gods_ , he thought drily to himself.

“The girl sends her apologies, Lord Littlefinger, seems she did not know the early bird gets the worm,” He said with a hoarse chuckle. To this Petyr raised an eyebrow and brought his cup to his lips, though The Hound could see a slight smile.

Sandor knew Sansa only wished him to bid Baelish a smart apology, but he would not stoop so low as to grovel to the small man. He had every confidence that the little dove would swoop in and save him from exchanging pleasantries; she could reverse whatever damage he did with a smile. She had been practicing being coy with Joff, and Sandor felt that Petyr would be an easier target; the lewd older man was not known for his charity, of all the men in King’s Landing they were now living with the greediest.

Though he was uneasy as he again reflected on how he did not know exactly what Littlefinger was after. The dangerous thing about dealing with Baelish was that the mockingbird was always thinking about the long term. When you thought you knew what he was after and how he was going to go about it, he blindsided you. The Hound had often heard hushed rumors about how tricky Baelish was, how Littlefinger’s plots and goals eluded even Varys’s spies.

His sigil should have been a spider; unassuming because of its size and stature but deadly if it bites you, capable of creating webs in which once one is stuck, death is inevitable.

Every time Sandor was forced to be near this man he thought of the game of chess, those small-adorned pieces he had seen the Imp and Varys play with on occasion. Petyr was no pawn, but he was no king either; his role was always secret and his intentions hidden behind layer and layer of falsehoods.

His head was already hurting just thinking about how many schemes Littlefinger must have.

Sandor rubbed his temple and went back to his food; he couldn’t very well play mind games with the mockingbird on an empty stomach.

* * *

 

As Petyr and his whores drank at the table, and The Hound sulked by the door, Sansa was busy readying herself as quickly as possible. She had to make herself presentable, had to capture the idea and look of having spent hours on fixing herself up while spending as little actual time as she could.

She had dressed and put perfume on in a matter of minutes, she and Allaya were making good time. Sansa ran her fingers through her hair as they walked, trying to detangle the knots from it.

She took the stairs two at a time careful not to exert herself or trip over her borrowed gown. She had to fight the urge to run, as arriving out of breath and panting would make her seem more childish; she felt small enough already.

“You need not worry yourself too much, my lady, his lordship waits on every face before eating, and while you are the last it is not the longest we have waited,” Allaya’s gait matched Sansa’s but she could feel the nervous energy radiating from the Stark girl’s body. The young whore meant her words to be soothing; to calm Lady Sansa down, but out of the corner of her eye Allaya saw the girl’s jaw twitch. Allaya wanted to reach out and put her hand on Sansa’s shoulder but her experience with the highborn had taught her that pity and sympathy had a contradictory effect on lords and ladies. They did not want compassion if it came from someone below their rank.

She could not keep her mouth from running though–something she couldn’t help doing when she was nervous, a bad habit that often got her in trouble with clients–“Lord Baelish does not care a bit for any misconduct on your part, he would never say it in as many words, but my lady, he is just plain overjoyed to have you here,” Sensing no backlash from her words, Allaya continued. “You’re lucky my lady, his lordship likes them young and with fire kissed hair, and here you are naturally both,” Laughing to herself, Allaya added, “You don’t know how many women have dyed their hair to earn his fancy,”

Sansa turned her head slightly to her companion, something between pride and discomfort plain on her face.

“Thank you, Allaya. You have been so kind to me, I will not forget all the work you’ve done to help me,”

Allaya cleared her throat, Petyr had essentially non-verbally ordered her to summon the Stark girl, and here the lady was sincerely thanking her. She knew that she had done nothing sincere to help the Stark lady, but it couldn’t hurt to let her Sansa think better of her. Living under Littlefinger’s roof had taught Allaya that nothing came without a cost, that nothing was priceless, and that to get ahead sometimes one must get behind another person.

Allaya wanted Sansa to like her, to want to be friends, allies, even more if that was to Lady Sansa’s fancy. She just needed something, or someone to help her climb up the ladder. If Littlefinger was willing to risk it all on the Stark girl’s behalf, Allaya figured that there was something to gain from being allies.

She just had to win Sansa over first.

As they reached the last flight of stairs Sansa stopped at the top and ran her hands down the front of her gown, mystified at how fast it was filling out. Noticing how clammy her hands felt, she discreetly wiped them her sleeves. As children, Arya would often tease her for her clammy hands, calling them “unladylike” and “mannish”.

But Sansa couldn’t think of that now, she had a mission. She would have to woo Petyr Baelish, a man as unpredictable as Sandor in his own right, if she was going to escape being a Lannister prisoner.

A small voice piped up from her side, “My lady, I assure you there is nothing to worry about, my lord lacks both bark and bite, he is actually quite fair and kind”

Allaya droned on, but Sansa just nodded, oblivious to the other girl’s ramblings. She would have to sing a pretty song, but her throat was dry and itchy. She knew what to say and how to say it to come across demure but she only hoped that she sounded contrite enough to fool Lord Baelish.

* * *

 

The little bird was taking her sweet time, and Sandor was growing more antsy and annoyed with every passing minute.

Two more whores had left the table after bidding Baelish polite pardons. Now that the company had thinned out, Sandor swept his wary gaze over each and every woman thoroughly.

The table in front of him had enough chairs and room to seat eight comfortably, three chairs and place sets on the sides and one chair per end. Littlefinger occupied the taller end chair furthest from The Hound, his back to the door that led to the back courtyard. Three whores sat with him, and one lingered against a wooden counter near the food. The three seated with Lord Baelish were all on the right side of the table.

 _As far away from me as they can get,_ Sandor thought bitterly.

The closest one was a good head taller than her companions. She was lanky and boney, her skin anemic and slightly yellowish. She had thin limp gold hair and looked tired, she had pale blue circles under her eyes that accentuated her icy blue eyes. She wore a light orange robe that complimented her pale skin and hair. Quite frankly, to Sandor she looked diseased and he made a mental note to inquire about any illnesses circulating this place. He could only imagine what kind of horrible sicknesses lingered in brothels, despite Baelish’s attempts to remain high class.

The middle one obviously hailed from Lys; she had a heart shaped face and a head of curled and perfumed silver hair. The most striking feature, however, were her muted purple eyes. The way her cream tunic hung off one shoulder and showed off her curves made it hard to look away.

Small wonder Baelish had a Lysene woman under his employment. Lys was not known for her ugly citizens. The pillow houses in Lys were famous across Westeros and Essos, as being places where every desire and thirst was sated. Sandor had never been but he had heard tales of how the Lysene people would breed their bed-slaves in the hopes of producing beautiful boys and fair maidens. He didn’t know much about the culture, but he did know the Lysene people worshipped a love goddess; he had seen her wanton image pressed on their coin.

The Hound shook his head and resumed inspecting the women. The one closest to Baelish was leaning over and whispering something into Littlefinger’s ear. It must have been amusing, for they both glanced at Sandor and snickered softly to each other. Sandor caught Petyr’s eye and the other man brought his cup to his lips, a mean smile still plastered on his face.

Sandor leered at him and faced the woman; his look causing her to turn away, the fear and repulsion in her eyes didn’t even faze him.

She looked to be from Volantis, the teardrop tattoo under her right eye gave her away as a prostitute. She had a cat’s angular face and short dark hair, hardly longer than the tips of her ears. She had glossy olive skin, deep green eyes and high cheekbones, her body was tight and athletic looking under her deep purple dress, the loose fabric and high collar flattering her long limbs and petite physique. She had an air of quiet importance and elegance; he distrusted her beauty in an instant. She was far too fetching to be working for a weasel like Littlefinger.

His eyes were still roaming the length of her body when movement in near Petyr caught his attention.

He had been so preoccupied staring down the women in front of him he had neglected to inspect the one lounging against the wall near the counter.

She was leaning against the wall halfway between the food and the door to outside, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether or not she wanted fresh air or food. She was inspecting her nails, her body language at ease if not lazy. Her body, hair, and face were all painfully average. She had the kind of look of someone who you could lose in a crowd instantly. Her mousey hair fell just shy of her freckled shoulders. Her body looked healthy and her face was decent enough on the eyes, but her eyes, Sandor decided, were the most interesting thing about this otherwise dull looking girl. She had eyes like fresh clay, brown and gold and orange all at once. They were beautiful, truthfully speaking; in Sandor’s opinion her eyes were the only beautiful or even remotely interesting, things about her. Apart from them, she was uniquely ordinary.


	19. Chapter 19

He heard her before he saw her. With his cup resting lightly against his lips, Petyr lifted an eyebrow at Sandor. The great oaf was still staring him down, if the Hound's glare meant to frighten him, he would have to try harder.  Littlefinger was a man of principle; he was not easy to scare.

Sandor tore his eyes away from Petyr's and stood to face the doorway, his back straight and hand lingering by his sword hilt. The little bird was getting closer. Petyr knew by the sounds of her footsteps that she was in a hurry. 

 ** _In a hurry to see me_** , he thought practically beaming. He knew she was really in a hurry to get things moving, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't let himself pretend she was excited to see him. His ego demanded it of him. A small voice in the back of his mind said, **_She looks like Cat, but she could be like Lysa, or like her lord father._** Ideally, she would be as easy and gullible as her aunt had been, but he knew not to expect the most desirably outcome; when had he ever been given what he wanted right away? Still, he hoped she was as manageable as Lysa, Lysa had always been eager to prove her love for him, and she had done _everything_ , he had told her too.  He smirked reminiscing.

Petyr couldn’t wait to play with his new toy.

He stood, pushing back his chair with a small scrap.  He maneuvered the length of the table in a few confident steps; he wanted to be the first thing she saw in the room. 

She entered shyly, her hands clasped in front of her gown. Allaya was right behind her, the slut's lazy smile mischievous.  Allaya winked at him from behind Sansa and slid over to the table, seating herself closest to the Hound. Petyr chose to ignore what her actions might imply; he had more pressing matters to attend to, securing his next player.

Sansa was a vision: long Tully hair and large Tully eyes. The fire in her hair waged a war with the subdued look in her eyes; she was all he could ever want; an impressionable and available Catelyn. 

"My dear, I trust you slept well," Petyr said with an exaggerated bow, Sansa couldn't tell if he was serious or mocking her.  When he raised his head the glint of mirth in his eyes told her he was at least poking some fun at her expense. She could feel the blush creeping up her neck but all she could do was wring her hands and curtsy to him. Sansa had only been acquainted with Lord Baelish a handful of times earlier; she didn't know him at all, though he had given her kind advice.  If only she had listened to him. 

"My Lord, I sincerely apologize for disturbing your morning with my tardiness,"

Sansa still had her eyes trained on the floor when she heard him laugh; unlike Sandor, Petyr's laugh was light and airy. She looked up at him and saw the friendliness written on his face, his smile was wide and white and welcoming.  Even his grey-green eyes were laughing. 

She straightened up, her confusion must have been plain on her face, for Petyr opened his arms and stepped towards her.  A little too close, but she didn’t want to displease him by moving away.

"Ah, sweetling don't mind that, what's important is that you are here, with us," The Hound could have sworn he heard Littlefinger add under his breath, "with me,"

 Sandor could feel a snarl crawling it's way up his throat as Baelish offered Sansa his arm.  It was such a common gesture, but for some reason with Baelish, it felt tainted: dirty.

Sansa laid her fingers gingerly on the crook of Lord Baelish's arm and let him guide her to a chair at the table to his immediate right.  Petyr pulled the chair back for her and pushed it in as she sat, a smile ever present on his lips.  Mischievous and unreadable, but his smile soothed her weariness.

She liked his smile; it was warm. She couldn't help but smile back up at him. He was only a few inches taller than she, but he seemed to carry with him a sense of dignity that made him taller and more regal.  He had style, she couldn’t help but notice and appreciate the care he put into his appearance. They made brief introductions and she smiled as the women at the table with them welcomed her. Willo, a pale and shy looking woman; Nyla, a beautiful woman from Lys, who smelled like sandalwood and jasmine; and Atohl across from Sansa, with a tear drop tattoo and smug smirk.

These women mystified Sansa. They were so elegant and breathtaking, she felt inadequate sitting at the same table. But Allaya was with her, and the smaller girl chatted up the three older women, alternating between teasing and gossiping. Soon Sansa was ignored, she had nothing of any relevance to add to their conversation, she had just been nodding and smiling politely at the appropriate times. Feeling a tad bit uncomfortable, she turned to Littefinger, who was more than willing to engage her in conversation. In fact, she found he had been watching her, inspecting her, scrutinizing her, but not in a menacing manner, if anything she felt like she saw admiration in his eyes.

Sandor watched by his post at the door as the two sat and chatted, he distrusted Littlefinger's smile and disliked the way the little bird smiled obediently back up at him. To be honest he was slightly irked that she had not paid his presence any mind; he had been standing there as a sworn sword would for their banner, and yet she hadn't even glanced at him. 

He sat back down with a huff, trying not to pout. The anger he felt was coiling in his gut, winding tighter every time Littlefinger leaned over to whisper something to Sansa, threatening to suffocate him every time Sansa covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a giggle.

Petyr was using their shared space to get as close to the girl as possible, he was mindful not to invade her space too much as to make her uncomfortable; he had to find her boundaries and limits and see if there was any fluidity in them. He could also reason that with her history of male encounters, his presence might not be welcome, but he found every excuse to lean into her.  If not just to smell her.

"Sansa, I must say, that color on you is absolutely wonderful," He said, with the friendliest smile he could muster, he had to remind himself to remain restrained, he could not let his longing for her put their budding relationship in jeopardy. The little thing blushed at his compliment, and looked down at her lap, toying with the hem of her sleeve. 

"Thank you, Lord Baelish, I must thank you for all that you have made available to me.  I hope it did not cost you too much," She said shyly. "I wouldn't want to be a burden, my lord"

Petyr could have laughed; a _burden_? She was the greatest gift he had ever received; nothing she could ever do or ask for would ever be a burden to him. She would always be his godsend.  His precious girl, his most special gift.

He chuckled softly and laid his hand on her shoulder, ignoring her seemingly subconscious flinch. 

"Call me, Petyr, my dear," Straightening up he added, "And pay no mind to expenses, you are my guest and my only wish is to keep you comfortable and content,"

The corner of his mouth raised into a smirk as he met Sandor’s eye, the Hound did not like the attention he was lavishing onto the girl. Petyr knew the Hound must wish to be able to touch her this tenderly in public, but no one of right mind would permit a beast to touch a beauty. With a grin he started moving his thumb in reassuring circles on Sansa’s shoulder, and winked at the Hound. He wanted to see Sandor’s limits too, see how far he could push the dog before he snapped. Not wanting to push his luck, Petyr took his hand away and smiled down at Sansa.

Petyr looked over his shoulder and gestured to the girl by the counter. She nodded almost indiscernibly, and gathered bread and cakes and fruit in her arms and laid them out on the table.

Sansa looked up at the mousey girl and offered a soft, thank you. The girl went back to the counter and took a fresh jug of iced milk with honey. Sansa watched her stalk the length of the table, refilling cups silently. The other women paid her no mind; in fact they all stiffened when she approached and their talk only continued when she had left. Even Allaya was quiet when the brown haired girl was hovering over her, filling her cup, a strange scowl on the happy girl’s face.

Sansa lifted her cup to her as the girl approached her seat. She watched the girl closely, and found herself caught by the other woman’s eyes. Though she couldn’t seem to find anything, any emotion behind those amber orbs. When her cup was full, she gently touched the girl’s wrist, “Thank you, …”

Sansa kept her fingers on the girl’s hand while she waited for the girl to reply with her name, but the woman just looked at Baelish with a mix of exhaustion and irritation. Sansa looked over at him, her hand automatically going to the hem of her sleeve, anxious that she had made a mistake.

Petyr smiled and cleared his throat, “Sansa, meet Jey, she is our resident musician, her music can touch the heart” He said putting his hand over his heart and frowning comically. “She is a valued member of our small community and lives here in this humble abode with the rest of the girls, she does not however…speak.”

Jey walked around Sansa’s chair and filled Littlefinger’s cup, he nodded his thanks to her and continued. “For as long as she has been with us–and it has been quite some time now hasn’t it, my dear–she has been mute. Upon arrival of every new girl we go through certain procedures to assure the girl’s health, and it was found that Jey had had her tongue cut out,”

Sansa tried not to stare at the girl but her hand gently caressed her own throat, she couldn’t imagine what kind of pain that must have been.

“I don’t myself know the exact details of the incident, as I’ve asked her many times, but she hasn’t of yet told me what happened,”

Petyr was grinning at her, his smile so calm and nice and gentle, and Sansa couldn’t help herself, she smiled at him back, despite the awkwardness of the situation. Jey, having fulfilled her duty, retreated to her post by the door and leaning against the wall, picking under her fingernails with a knife. Sansa hadn’t even seen the knife until now; she cocked her head and wondered slowly, **_where was she keeping it?_**

* * *

 

The rest of breakfast went off without a hitch. Sandor sat sulking by the doorway, even when Allaya brought him a tray of food; he refused to say anything, only grunting his gratitude. Petyr was utterly charming, regaling Sansa of stories of the Vale and the Fingers and how her lady mother was as a girl. She found herself lost in his words, though the affectionate way in which he spoke of her mother was not lost on her. Allaya and the other women busied themselves with idle chatter and bets and jokes, and if not for the threat of Joffrey’s wrath looming over her head, Sansa would have had a grand time. She could almost forget the danger to her person in Petyr’s company; almost.

As they finished up their meals, Jey came around again to take plates away, everyone murmured their thanks without making eye contact, and despite herself, Sansa found she could not meet the other girl’s eyes. The same eyes that had seemed so bright before seemed to challenge her to say something, anything. And that scared Sansa. So she kept her head down as Jey took her plate and utensils and cup and she whispered a breathy thank you.

With their places cleared, Willo, Atohl, Nyla, and Allaya excused themselves. Sansa figured they must have to get ready in case patrons came to see them; it still hadn’t really dawned on Sansa that she was in a brothel and that the people she had broken her fast with were whores.

As they headed towards the doorway she heard Atohl tease Allaya, “Your man comin’ again? Wassit three times this week?”

Allaya waved her hand dismissively at the taller woman and replied with an exaggerated sultry dance, “He can’t help himself, could you?”

Atohl laughed, not unkindly, and said, “Aye, I’ve always loved those Lannister bastards, or fer you, I’ve always loved bastards of Lannisters,” Allaya turned around and walking backwards drew a finger down from her right eye to her right cheek, and Atohl defensively brought her hand up to cover her tattoo.

“Come now girls, let’s now bicker,” The Lys woman, Nyla, said. Their voices travelled down the hallway and Sansa could hear the four women laughing and giggling as they walked up the stairs.   She was curious how they prepared for clients who paid to use their bodies, she had no place to judge what others did to survive, but she was just curious about their regimens. Each woman was already beautiful in her own right; she couldn’t imagine they made themselves more appealing. As she watched them go, Sansa caught Sandor’s eye. He looked angry; but that wasn’t anything new. She smiled at him tentatively and turned her attention back to Lord Baelish.

Sansa was understandably a bit anxious at the prospect of having to talk to Baelish about fulfilling Joff’s deal. She wanted him to respect her, and her situation put her completely at his mercy; it wasn’t ideal.

 ** _But he has been so kind,_** she thought, **_surely he is no good man if the stories I have heard can be believed…but he cannot be that bad…can he?_**

Petyr could read the hesitation and apprehension plain on her face. He smiled softly; she would need molding if she were going to be a player. She wore her heart on her sleeve, which in itself wasn’t a terrible quality, but she would have to learn how to show just the right amount and to whom.

He stood, pushed his chair back and bowed offering her his hand.

“If my lady would care to walk with me, there is a garden back in the courtyard that I think would suit you well,”

Sansa took his hand and stood up, his smile was contagious, and her cheeks were starting to ache. They walked to the courtyard with their arms linked, very much the picture of a lady and a lord. She didn’t need to look behind her to know that Sandor was following them; she could hear his breathing, and by the way it hitched when she accepted Petyr’s hand, she could infer that he was displeased. But she did not have the time or energy to deal with his childish jealousy, and she could only guess–a part of her even hoped–that Sandor was indeed jealous.

The courtyard was bright and green, a paved trail weaving through bushes and hedges and rows of bright flowers. It was barely midday and yet it was already sweltering. She and Petyr found a bench in the shade in front of a rose bush and sat. As she would have expected looking at the way he dressed and carried himself, Petyr possessed a garden that was as elegant and spotless as he was. Object mirrored master.

Simple, pretty, and unassuming.

“Do you like roses, Sansa?” he asked, looking at her with a smile and amusement in his eyes. He stood up, walked to the bush in front of them and plucked a pale red, almost pink rose, and went back to show her.

“As much as I like any other flower, Lor-Petyr,” The tone and way in which he asked her made her wonder if he was playing a joke on her. She was on edge, Sansa did not want to seem a fool in his eyes, if he must talk in riddles, she must be prepared to gauge his meaning and reply with her own wit.

“Roses are one of my favorite flowers, do you know why?”

Sansa looked at the hand that was twirling the stem, at how smooth and pale and long his fingers were. She guessed his hands would be softer than Sandor’s, less calloused and hard. She shook her head to get that nonsense out, she should not be thinking of these men in that way, it was improper and unfair to compare.

She bit her lip, not knowing what he wanted from her. Her knowledge of roses was rudimentary; she knew they had thorns and that they were pretty. That was it. **_That was it!_** She thought, excited at the prospect of being right.

“Because of their thorns?” She was confident in her answer, and while she had partially guessed why, Petyr had to keep her in check. Remind her who was the smarter of the two.

“Of a sort, my sweetling,” he replied. “The rose is a favorite of mine because of its image,”

She looked confused, so he continued, happy to hear himself tell this pretty little thing a secret or two.

“Many people admire roses, they are beautiful,” he said pointedly smiling at her, “and despite their popularity, people forget their thorns. You see roses are my favorite because beauty is the precursor for pain; people reach and reach to obtain their desired beautiful object, and neglect to remember to keep their hands off least they get pricked. Gardens are much like courts; my dear, the pretty and the strong rise up and soak up the sun’s rays before anything else can sprout up. The powerful push out their competition, and yet weeds are seen everywhere, weeds, Sansa, grow and prosper in each and every environment they are given. And everything is assailed by natural calamities; bugs eat each leaf without a thought to what plant is what, and disease and famine and war take without discrimination. Nature chooses sides, and flowers cannot decide where to grow, but with help, even the most frail and…meek…flower can overtake a garden”

He had lost her, all this talk of flowers and weeds and bugs went right over her head. She knew his message was only thinly veiled, yet she could not seem to understand what he was asking of her, what he wanted her to understand. So she vocalized this.

“Petyr, I do not think I understand,” It felt shameful to admit that she did not understand, but she figured he would want her honesty more than anything. She wanted his honesty more than anything.

Petyr sighed, she was too young and naïve to fully understand what he was telling her, he should have known that. His little bird would have to be taught a new song before he could let her fly on her own. He patted her shoulder in what he hoped was a fatherly way, “My dear, don’t worry that pretty little head, if you come to understand only half of what I say, then you will know how all of my secrets. My hope for you, Sansa, is that during your time here with me, you learn how to tend to your own garden,”

He grinned at her and took one of her hands in both of his, “Sansa, would you like to garden with me?” He released her hand and gestured to the edge of the courtyard, by the wall that surrounded his estate. She could just barely see a mound of dark brown soil by the corner. “I have a plot set up for you, maybe you make your own godswood here, somewhere where the sun can kiss you and you can feel at peace,”

Sansa had never really gardened, she used to play in the snow at Winterfell, but she was open to anything. She still did not know what his words had meant, not fully, but she appreciated his concern over her wellbeing, and knew deep down that she would do whatever she could to keep him happy and potentially on her side.

“Lord Baelish, my thanks. Truthfully I have never had any experience with growing anything, my lady mother tended to a vegetable garden in Riverrun, as you may recall, but the North was too cold for her to grow as she had, maybe I have her luck,”

He brought both hands to his heart, the image of gratitude and contentment, “It does my heart great joy to see you smile, I hope I will see it often these next few weeks,” With a sign he slapped his thighs with his palms and stood with a grin, “Now, my dear, let us retire to my solar and talk about this nasty matter with the King,”

Her stomach dropped, but she stood, smoothing the front of her dress and taking a hem between her fingers, her hands suddenly sweaty.

The sun had been warm and nice on her back, but not the glare was overwhelming and the heat too hot, the smell of flowers had made her happy, but now the stench of roses made her stomach turn. She saw concern in Sandor’s eyes, but she shrugged off his fear. Sansa had known full well what she was supposed to be doing here; she had just been hoping it would never happen.

Swallowing her fright, Sansa put on her brightest smile and laid her arm on Petyr’s elbow. Littlefinger was amused, he had hoped to see her falter, and although she had visibly hesitated and paled, she was looking up at him with a bright smile and nothing but courage behind her eyes.

“After you, Petyr,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok few things  
> so i tried to shift away from a lot of detail and into more action and talking hope you guys liked it, if you did or didn't i would love to hear  
> i'm gonna try to get to either 50k words or 25 chapters (whichever comes first lol) by the end of July so expect maybe a chapter a week for the next three weeks  
> and lastly i need feedback on Petyr's character 

**Author's Note:**

> cannot say it enough  
> please comment I live for your comments! and I pinky promise to work on more chapters I will finish this story. one way or another I always finish what I start  
> thanks every1 love u all


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